The window was open in the middle of winter, and i would not be closing it because given my luck, the night i shut it would be the night you tried to come in. After two years and six days, irony would not miss an opportunity like that. After two years and six days i lay wrapped up and in a cocoon of blankets and wished to be born again into something beautiful, a moth that could fly blindly and happily towards the light, or a butterfly that children would extend their hands out to.
January wind blew in through the window and i wrapped myself tighter. This was a window that would stay open forever.
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