It is nearly impossible not to attribute some sort of significance to dates: new year’s, friday the 13th, your birthday, etc, etc.
It is, after all, just another day, a random moment in an orbit that’s been travelled for millions of years.
And yet.
37 in a matter of hours. The downward slide. A part of me dreads the spiral of this thinking, where it leads.
Another part thinks of the infinite and how infintismally small tomorrow is.
I oscillate wildly.