And now it’s done. And now the year begins. So uncertain, so predictable.
And we will run along the magnetic lines, constrained by clocks, waiting for new moons, waiting for the necessary accident that 
spins us beyond the pull of gravity and routine to float for a while in the reality of each others arms.
And before the recoil, we will see what is to be seen.
We will be seers who know the warmth, the heat of connection, willing to be burned over again, willing to endure a long shadow for a second of truth: that we are a thousand flashes of love, hidden in flesh, soaring in the bright chambers of one big heart.
I remember a reoccurring dream I had when I was six. Every night I would quit the bed and walk to the top
of the stairs. I would take a step and fall headlong, and just before crashing at the bottom I would find my gliding-wings and land perfectly at the foot of the stair. I would wake with my stomach in my mouth and an exquisite tingling down my back. And at that age, I knew at depth that we were all made to fly. That we all have vestigial wings waiting for the accident that will fling us off our broken ladders and tottering scaffolds and compel us to remember the old days of flight, and unfurl in the coming days of light.
