The title of the post seems appropriate on this, the final day of 2017.
Tonight, you might raise a champagne flute and count each second as it passes. Tonight, you might wrap your arm around the shoulders of a lifelong friend. Tonight, you might slip away to secret places with a stranger, heartbeats racing, and the rising of the morning will glow warm upon you both.
Tonight, you might stand inside a doorway, at the threshold of a bedroom, and watch the breathing of your child as she dreams of days to come.
You might do some of these things. You might do none of them.
You might wish you were doing them.
You might wish you weren't.
These are our lives. These are our stories. Every moment is a sentence. Every day is a page. You read what others write. You write, and others read.
And perhaps, like Morrissey's narrator, like Fitzgerald's wanderer, like an elderly man in a dying town who is the fictional creation of the author you're now reading -- perhaps like all of them, you believe in possibility. Perhaps, thanks to your success or despite your sadness, you believe in unwritten chapters. Perhaps you believe what's past need not be prologue. Perhaps you believe a child's dreams can be made real.
Perhaps you believe in a light that never goes out.
We hope that you do.
Happy new year. See you in 2018.
It's going to be a good one.