From a third-story window above the Parc du Portugal,
I've watched the snow come down all day.
As usual, there's no one here. There never is.
Mercifully, the inner conversation is canceled by the white noise of winter.
I am neither the mind, the intellect nor the silent voice within.
That's also canceled.
And now, gentle reader, in what name - in whose name -
do you come to idle with me
in this luxurious and dwindling realms of aimless privacy?
- Leonard Cohen
Book of Longing