April is the cruellest month, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain.
— T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

I keep waking up with a sense that I've forgotten something important, that I've left something behind, but I have no way of knowing what it is.

My doctor has a shorthand for the feeling of coming out of a depression. She says, "April is the cruelest month."