I picked up another one of Haruki Murakami's books after a long
break (from reading, from Murakami, and from this particular book
of his: The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle).  His books always evoke in me
vague feelings I struggle to put into words: impossible to bring
closer and examine, like distant memories of nostalgic reminiscences
in a long-forgotten dream, and yet surprisingly poignant.

Sitting at my desk facing the window at night, with my desk lamp
lighting the otherwise dimly-lit room, glancing every once in a
while at the quiet snow-coated road and trees, sipping a warm cup
of herbal tea while I type this on a computer from a different age,
to dispatch it to the few unknown dwellers of these ancient and
long-forgotten corners of the internet, this moment in time, and
my world and life and choice of literature and activity within it,
all seem to be in perfect harmony.

For a fleeting moment, before it all dissolves, not to vanish into
nothingness, but to permeat, if ever so thinly, time and space and
the very fabric of the universe.