We walked from the top of the hill to the sea and savoured the salted air. We buried our faces in the white blooming foliage of clematis armandii, covering us in a shower of meteorites and drowning our nostrils in their dreamy orange blossom scent. 

Up the hill again, and in the garden. We sat under the blossoming cherry trees, observing their white petals fall one by one into the black pond. Just as our present moments are disappearing into the bleak past. We will never forget that night. It was equal to the day. Only that after that, the days will begin to lengthen, and we will have to wake up from this dream. Things will become more clear. More real. More light. Lightheaded from gin and tonic, washed down with salty tears of grateful appreciation muddled by the silent anger and deep sadness that is the inevitable realization that what is never will be again.