Before the year ends I will write about the sad girl who was afraid of the night sky and its ominous vastness and its incalculable depth and her hopeless minuteness below it. But her mother had died and she was living she had told the sad girl about the story of beautiful fairies and how they were the stars and that the stars twinkle because of fairy dust. And so every night, the sad girl sat under the pitch-black heavens and lost herself in its overwhelming nothingness because she believed that her mother was in there somewhere, a new star being born. Every day, too, she lost herself in the labyrinths of the library to read about the night sky and stars and fairies and her mother. I do not know how to write this story yet or how to end it yet and I do not know if it is about hope or hopelessness or if I can write it at all. But I know that I want to try and that I must try for if I do not write I will be very sad and it is not right to start a year that way.