I caught myself remembering the translation of a verse by Forough
Farrokhzad.  It goes:

	I'm cold.
	I'm cold, and I'll never be warm again.

Yet this is not how I feel, even as I shiver slightly, pressing my
feet to catch some of the feeble heat of the radiator as I watch
the bare branches of the trees that line the road stagger in the
flickering street lights.  The distant yellow lights gently scatter
in the rain drops on the window.  The wind howls mournfully as dark
clouds sail across the midnight sky.  The past, present, and future,
memories and dreams, light and darkness, space and time, being and
un-being, silence and sound, all blend and turn and become one,
and engulf everything.