It had been a long time since I felt the fragrance of summer: the scent of the ocean, a distant train whistle, the touch of a girl's skin, the lemony perfume of her hair, the evening wind, faint glimmers of hope, summer dreams.
But none of these were the way they once had been; they were all somehow off, as if copied with tracing paper that kept slipping out of place.
--Huraki Murakami, Hear the Wind Sing
That's how it is sometimes, isn't it? We experience a pale shade of wonder, something that points to another time, a memory of something, bigger, brighter, stronger, accompanied by a sort of longing, nostalgia, wanting to reach and grasp again, yet unable. One stands outside oneself, an observer, regretfully detached, and there seems no escape from this ennui. Where did my heart go, one wonders? Oh, yes ... it's that part of me that is aching.