Outside, it is New Year's Eve: Fireworks, noisemakers, parties. People await the magic moment. Inside, I am outside time, listening to the winter lights. I am not at Pittsburgh's 2001 First Night, wandering downtown, trying to choose which performances interest me the most. I am in Cincinnati. Mary's sister Eleanor is working 11 to 7 at the hospital. Her son just left for the airport. Suzanne is at an all-night party with college friends. Mary and I are here with Eleanor's husband. Kurt doesn't talk much. We discuss model trains. We don't discuss guns; we've nothing new to say on that subject. Mostly Kurt sits and drinks coffee. Buddhism teaches that only the present is real; the past is gone and the future is unknowable. For me, on this last night of 2000, the present is the least real. In here, I am somewhere else, somewhere between the years. This past year was difficult, troubled. Politics - The whole year I worked and now I feel as if my house had been broken into and robbed. Medical - I have balance problems, literally. I need a new year. The coming year is uncertain. Job, career ... Is it too late to figure out What I'm going to be when I grow up? Can I still make a mark? In here, Kurt turns on the TV. A hundred young people crowd Times Square to watch The ball drop. I will go to bed early, wake up early, and watch the new year dawn.