I cannot be the only one who only has an appetite for Rachmaninoff after midnight. His music, at once intense, dramatic, plaintive, yet sombre and still somewhat disciplined is hard to swallow in the crowded daytime when the senses are overwhelmed by other sights, sounds and things to do.

Perhaps not incidentally, it is at night that the soul begs salvation and so this sublime music gets to penetrate the conscious mind that constantly resists invasion and touch a softer inner core.

It's one of the things I miss the most from my Russian ballet class, now that I'm attending a decidedly different one. Those cool Monday mornings, when I haul myself up from a warm bed to be stretched to the Russian master's own woes. It's a sweet kind of torture really. And what I wouldn't give for that rush of cold to warm cheeks again while making my way downhill, invigorated after class.

Yet as I write this, it is truly difficult for me to say what I miss. Possibly the solitude though I get plenty of that as it is. Maybe the absolute control I had over my life then, but to say I had control would be a little disingenuous as I bear some scars from the constant struggle last year. Only perhaps the statement that everything looks beautiful after a time has passed would be slightly more honest as I pray for some kind of Springtime again.