" By now I was talking to my mother, as the wounded and the dying do, I was begging for comfort, just this last once, this last time. Put your cool hand on my brow as you did when I was little and had a fever and you came in the middle of the night and tucked me in. Sometimes she would take off all of my blankets and then one by one waft them back over me; first the sheet, she'd lift it up again, and it would flutter down, so cool, so clean. How happy children can be in their beds. "

― David Gilmour , Sparrow Nights