Why is it that always when the raindrops drum across the windowsill and the chill of winter reminds of its presence when trees are supposed to bloom and flowers are meant to burst in colour I find a comfort in the warm embrace of days past and it's hard to tell whether I look back and I mourn or whether I look back and I celebrate the days weeks months stacked like a house of cards on this journey this path which I tread and whether I wish I was still within the temporal dimension I knew so well or whether I rather enjoy this metamorphosis unseen which occurred to my being from the days I daydream in to the days I exist in?