Hot shower, squeaky-clean hair. Cold drizzle outside my window. Clean, bleach-scented sheets. Lavender hand cream. Bulleit nightcap, neat, on the rocks. A candle by the name of "Fresh Greens." Book of poetry. Meandering music by Sigur Ros. Quiet, save for the clinking of ice in the glass. Promise of spring lingering timidly on the edges of the chilled night. All senses sated.