The winter is perfect for reflections... my mind drifts away to Shakespeare's Twelfth Night:
But let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud,
Feed on her damask cheek.
She pin'd in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
... how I long to be in my beloved's arms and dreams but my yearnings to be at 25 Shattuck Street (via Longwood Avenue) are stronger...