Mid-way through my cold shower — the first pleasurable one this spring — I heard T. S. Eliot reciting in his clipped English accent excerpts from his cult poem, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."

Except, because my memory couldn't serve me well, my mind could only conjure the sounds of some lines; this one in particular, "And indeed there will be time," because a section of it repeats through the rest of that verse. I had to look it up later, and when I did, I re-read the verse, revisiting the poem after almost two years.