No, you know never did make it to Coney Island

but we did get to Never Never Land. Thank you Ashworths. Lovely party. Never, never land or ever some spot unlikely in middle Manhattan, in the insomniac city, a backyard where the sky wears stars. You can see constellations, strange, changes the atmosphere. So odd how gravitational pockets fuck with the general properties of time to flow forward, to wash wishes away, to destroy old Ozymandius, heal wounds, convert conversations, to age, birthday evidence to the contrary. Birthdays are brilliant breaths along the cyclical run around the seasons. Flares to hold up and admire what worlds of each other are coming to before we blow away to colleges, before we blow out the candles into darkness of uncounted days. Count 365 days back to when we did this for the first time, to when first left for Yale, yet only forward counts. I don't see well in that direction. So, lucky I won the bet. Ben, 10,000 lightbulbs, please.