Time wakens a longing more poignant than all the longing caused by the division of lovers in space, for there is no road back into its country. Our bodies were not made for that journey; only the imagination can venture upon it; and the setting out, the road, and the arrival is all imagination . Our memories of a place no matter how fond we were of it, are little more than a confusion of lights on a ground of darkness.

-Edwin Muir