No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
By nightshade.
—John Keats, "Ode to Melancholy"

It is beautiful, its flowers delicate and gentle and sweet to the bees, its berries strong and smooth. It is also deadly, and it twines itself through the fences in the narrow alleyway behind my house. Lethe in modern guise: forgetfulness in a place between places.