I'll know the names of all of the birds and flowers, and not only that, I'll tell you the name of the piano player I'm hearing right now on the kitchen radio, but I won't be in the kitchen, I'll be walking a street in New York or London, about to enter a coffee shop where people are reading or working on their laptops. They'll look up and smile. Next time I won't waste my heart on anger; I won't care about being right. I'll be willing to be wrong about everything and to concentrate on giving myself away. Next time, I'll rush up to people I love, look into their eyes, and kiss them, quick. I'll give everyone a poem I didn't write, one specially chosen for that person. They'll hold it up and see a new world. We'll sing the morning in, and I will keep in touch with friends, writing long letters when I wake from a dream where they appear on the Orient Express. "Meet me in Istanbul," I'll say, and they will.