Eves are strange in adulthood. We know too much and yet nothing at all. I arrive home in the early evening to a spread of presents and foods and silly soliloquy. We are different to each other in the pandemic. Everything matters more. WellWishes begin to pour in but they are muddled, you do not know how to explain a life yet.
Go to bed late, with champagne bubbling through your system and gratitude coursing through your veins, I ride the west side al the way down tonight in a beautiful sunset and still nothing is better than love. A country in ruins cannot take that away from you.
You stand on the precipice of another year. Previous dawns have been enticing, teasing fortune, but you are older now, surely, wiser. The treasures you see ahead may actually be real.
You are a year older. It means nothing, except confetti in your book pages. Nothing, except gratitude bursting at the seams.
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