The first sign, as always, was the music. Old melodies were distant at first, as if the notes themselves had aged a lifetime making their way to your ears. Next came the siren; you knew then that the time had come. The ship had docked, and it was time to leave – but who could resist slinking back for one more dance in the gilded ballroom, dark and soothing and replete?

Again the siren, rude and insistent, and still the same old music, piping softly by, and it really was time to go.

The motions that followed are distant now; unclear memories resonant with hints of song. Walking slowly down the street, a dusting of morning drizzle flicks across your face, an unlikely echo of a winter long since past, and you know your ship has sailed, leaving you terrestrial.

It is strange that, for all we might resist the transition – for all we want to stay – it is soon forgotten, as our limbs warm and stretch under the bright, spring sun. Minds coalesce toward full control and we tackle the day.

But that land waits, and unsuspecting heads will always fall, exhausted, caught at last by scented pillows. Candles flicker to their deaths, and before you know it – if you ever really do – figures softly shimmer and beckon. Their arms in yours, you turn and face the ballroom, and are gently swept away.