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The New Year


by Erika Byrne-Ludwig




Early this morning I open the new year book on the first page. It's still blank, without words, without lines, without images. There is nothing to signal, to report. Perhaps soon there will be cries and tears, black stains on the paper. Hopefully also some coloured ornament. For the moment I want to keep on dreaming, blind, far from the world outside my own. I close the book. The snow falls on it, blinding it with its own dream. 
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