I dreamed of shooting stars last night, they fell and fell, so many that I barely had time to register one before another dashed past my field of vision. I tried to make wishes for each one and laughed, my heart so light with the idea that a thousand lovely things were to happen. The year ahead seemed bright then; I woke full of promise and optimism.
The sun shone brightly today, as I pandered to the cliché of starting a new year with a clean slate, unending opportunity in the road ahead. I listened to old Beatles albums, remembering a summer in the Australian outback, the delicious curiosity of childhood, trying to figure out the meaning of a language I was only just coming to understand and knowing there must be more meaning to it than simply letters in a sleeve. A small writing desk stands suddenly in a corner of my bedroom: old, scuffed, and rickety, yet already dear to my heart. The hidden meaning in its existence needs no explanation; I run my fingers along it and relax in its wooden, dusty scent. There is magic in unopened drawers, shooting stars in hopefulness.
I've been hitting the town
and it didn't hit back.
All good things, shall come to pass.
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