New Year

The City of Falling Angels was too rich for my taste. I yawned and fell to dreaming of my jobless cousin emerging as a creative genius, respected and well known. Grandma finished sorting all the puzzle pieces while I conquered the sky, in all of its various iterations of blue. Leonard Cohen spoke in the dining room. Hallelujah or some such thing. The sailboats remain to be unraveled. A gunshot, or maybe a lighting bolt, shook the windowpanes. We all went out to look, but couldn’t see anything. So this is January, the start of the new year.