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my day is born when an old one dies,
over and over and over, for three hundred and sixty-five times into the next year,
and each new year seems shorter than the rest.

i came into this world alone,
crawling out of a wish, a city at night,
from the dark into the dark, splashed white by the artificial lights that break the cells in my eyes.
i wish i could remember what it felt to open them the first time,
to see all those colours, and right away understand, that this life is my life
and this life is a hard life and this life is a good life.
like a book is a movie.

if i could somehow do that again, i know i could be anything you want...

fitted.