I miss listening to Frank Sinatra like I used to. That year. When I think back on it like I do, that year belongs in the dictionary under happiness. It was a good year, and what's more, I didn't have much and I was happy. I was happy, I think. True, maybe I only remember the happy times and the pleasure, bot the bad and the sad times, which may be true, but truthfully, I was happy a lot. I was sad only sometimes. There was white light and dark red heartache and so many pleasures that year.
Now there's just an anxious grey.
