At times, all that is lost is the feeling, That of a chill upon the shoulders. The crest of the necks holds ghostly palms, non-existent until the sun itself has departed from intimacy.
When the air is taken upon by the best of times, of crisp cold and hollow howls, through the holes in a sweater the chill settles. Knees not a-knocking Fingers not a-trembling Jaw not a-clacking But there, only the thickest of your skin feels the nuances of the season.
To fix this, simply bundle up.