Crab Nebula - pg. 8

Every butterfly on its wings carries precise dose of fairy dust required to make Crab believe, for one brief moment, that the world is as he likes it. But as the effects of the hallucinogen fade, he once again finds himself anxious, melancholy, his cold delirium drags him through apocalyptic landscapes deserted even by the birds -- it seems to him the trees are losing their leaves, the days are growing shorter, that sort of thing, aberrations, and the wind bites at his bones.
(What Crab wants then is a nice bowl of soup in which to soak his frozen feet.)