It’s odd to have spent your year waiting for something. Though whatever sensation the waiting carries, it is nothing compared to the actual experiencing of what has been anticipated. The period I have waited for has now drenched me, but I fail to drown in it. Caught in the moment’s showers, I still only see the future again, as if trained by habit, accustomed to maintaining a gaze set in the distance, the dream I have waited for slips me by. And I realise, no matter if waiting, or making wild flings at attempts to savour the awaited, the days, all the days, they run away like wild horses over the hills.