2050

The depth of 2am sees friends express deviant love for each other, pissing away in the wind, kicking hideous architectural designs (*cough* ROM) and reminiscing past infatuations. Talks of absinthe and romanticism have polluted the very last breaths of air this year has to offer. And semi-schizophrenic DMN impersonated Juliet and yonder lights, pirouetting on the shimmering stars of uptown Bloor, to the sheer horror of virgin ears.
Half an hour later, a subway ride home, ethanol enzymatically metamorphosed, the brain starts bathing in vague lucidity of the after-hours: the mind tries to encapsulate a year into a few minutes, labeling the days, annotating the faces, sticking the yellow footnotes onto filled pages.
2005 will be remembered as a year of uncertainty and indecisions, of very highs and very lows, of letting go and letting in. It will be a year remembered for taking chances.
There will be no more of what if 1984 had been 1948.