No matter how small or old. Keep it clean so you can see what comes your way. When the lost bird flies into it looking for its mate, keep the feather stuck to the glass. Take it with you and dream of finding what completes you. At the edge of winter, open the window of your heart and see your breath, how what you bring up becomes the air. When you’re ready or pushed, close your eyes and the other window will appear, the one that faces all of time. What flies there never lands, but hovers, dropping seeds of infinity in the breaks we can’t heal. So open the window of your pain, though the whisperers tell you to nail it shut, and let in everything that’s ever lived. What flies and never lands has been waiting. Be brave. Don’t run. Let the fire around your window burn until you become the opening.