Into the forest of the night. When I wake up tomorrow it will be the last day of the year. I will be much older, but so will the entire world. Who will pause and care? We are always between birth and death. While we are still there, do we bother to count how many people we loved, and how many loved us? And what about those whom we failed to love, and those whose love we fended off? All of these will be glossed over by history, yet they will always be part of ether, of the air our children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren will breathe long after we are gone.