A new year begins. We toast in bubbles and remark on the tenacity of Times Square revelers. The city-dwellers leave first, but the express train comes quickly as we make friendships out of mutual confusions. But oh, how this year will be better. Still I spend the year's first days confined to my bed, writhing in fevered restlessness and unable to do anything else. By the time I muster up enough energy to brave the streets, the winter storm is just arriving; it beats cold snow down Seventh Avenue as people scramble to their homes. I get winded just walking down the stairs. My roommate stirs in excitement, longing to go out and see the West Village buried in the avalanche.
Somehow the illness works itself through my system, purging the sludge that accumulated over the year that passed. My clouded mind writes lists, sorts priorities, attempts to interpret the pulsating core within to see if it will reveal its passions. One more night's rest and I will this disease to pass, and with it, all infections of the time that was. It is a new day, now.
Something will come
that is better than you ever knew
you could hope for.
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