We are born with just one, a day, a date, a definition.

As our lives lengthen and each year submits to the next, the calendar collects significance.

Days to celebrate, days to dream of.

Holidays, birthdays and anniversaries of love.

We turn the page at each month’s end and four fresh weeks are offered to us again.

As we age towards our destinies dates darken, coloured by loss and leaving, death and distress and anniversaries of “over”.

The anticipation of another month is undermined by the eloquence of regret.

Still, we move forward.

Beating, reaching and running as life’s fickle winds propel us towards tommorow and tommorow and the next day.

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