It’s January 10th: the kind of day you look back on and makes your chest feel hollow. We’re monkeys in the snow, climbing trees and hanging by our feet. We’re not scared; we’re too young. Not too young for fear, but too young to rationalize it. I ask you what you wanna do and you say run. So we run and we drink the snow and we talk about the things we will do to each other someday. We tell stories with pink lightning and wild animals and people like us but taller. You say you’re scared-- not of falling, but of everything you don’t know. Your mom says there’s a better world coming, but when I ask you what that means you shrug. We say we’re lucky, born just in time to see the world be beautiful. To see blue skies and drink snow and never forget what it’s like. We were born just in time to know what we lost. I tell you in my dreams the sky is red and you can’t say happy Christmas without thinking that the whole world has changed. You say you only ever dream of velvet oceans and fake moons. I ask you what that means and you say we’re all psychic. Our dreams are prophecies, we were born in time to see them come true.