Sit on Henry Huntington's favorite branch.
Look at the last tree, the absolute one and only tree remaining from some xxxx-cene era. And feel a bit depressed by everything that brings to mind -- not that it's the last tree, but that the world is so old and comes back to some slimy moss and this rather ugly tree.
A fellow walker told me to admire the inflorescence, figuring I would know what that meant, and I oohed and ahhed over a cheeky little bird.
And then I got home and looked up the word (the spelling of which was a wild approximation). And inflorescence turns out to be this.
Well now I'm not just mopey, I'm also stupid. Pretentious sod, he could have just said flowers.