New Year

New Year is just a construct. Today is the same as ever and there is no difference in me either.

I don’t know why I want to visit a European country like Italy, or sit facing a blueish lake reading the classics written so far.

The Sun is not out today, the chill in the air starts to crawl up the legs. A  squirrel darts across a terrace and then stops to gaze at a swaying green branch.

Where is this year’s greatest living author?

©

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