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?