Mood (n.) is like the Niger River in Africa... no one knows its source, no one knows its outlet'only its reach is known.
A Mood (n.) cannot be produced at will, but prudence can see it coming like a sailor spotting a squall far off — and know its effect before putting it on.
A Mood (n.) pursued to its utmost limit in the abstract leaves nothing behind but a knowledge of it — and the possibility of having it again.
A Mood (n.) is where the aesthete hides himself entirely, so that nothing remains that cannot be inflected into it — for any remainder is a continuity that would hold him back.
Mood (n.) can turn the thought of one's death into an indefinite buzzing in the ears: now wishing a sudden death, now a slow one, until one's own end is a droll instance among many.