ONE NIGHT last week winter's first snow fell, and the city woke to a new world. Later in the day there'd be holes in the blanket, and urine stains and streaks of soot. But at dawn the world, hushed and unsullied, promised perfection.
So does a new year; 365 days lie ahead, each one a blank, beautiful page, with no way to know what will appear on them.
Still, we imagine the entries. Sometimes what we see is writ small. Ten pounds off, no more desserts, no more end-of-work martinis, more reading, less television, bills paid on time and bed by 11 o'clock.