Custom My Own Football Visors

the fleeting moment in which

is not yet midnight when we get down the river that divides the city into two parts, my cell phone signal and we rely on the 23:51 hour for the time to ground the empty wine bottle from which we will start our fireworks.

insignificant bottle of wine that becomes the focus of an artificial fire-button activity: all use it, all they want. we, on our part, we want only the bright stars in place of fireworks that are just bang and fear and were unfortunately included in the package bought at the last minute.

most of the people crowded on the bridge (walking?), The rest is scattered along the banks. what a strange way to celebrate New Year without a square without a clock and bright lights, without a count-down bigger than us. only the people who sing, who speaks, who rubs his hands in gloves, which beats the teeth and makes the smoke out of his mouth. my cell phone the 23:54 mark and began to slowly remove the caps of two sparkling wines from their housing. slowly, because we never want a bottle.

opened prematurely,

begin to drink now and then we have another

amateur despite the fireworks, the boat illuminated, the lights behind us and the light of the streetlamps, the longest river in the dark.

are

23:57

or not?

are 23:55?

the 23:58?

maybe we should start the countdown, but you do not understand this language, the language of hundreds of people who talk, laugh, count and sing together.

my phone is on, the clock i. is back and b. is lost behind his fireworks.

a bottle is gone, the next time we open.

but what time?

without the official countdown has marked all of my New Year's there are there, hoping we hope that our zero corresponds than the other and finally decide it's New Year's Eve, the faces of those around us, rising imperceptibly to fireworks in the sky and cries more pronounced.

if we split the second, if our zero coincided with that of this part of the world, we do not know: we drink our white wines and we embrace.

but I like to think that our midnight is not perfectly coincided with that of others, that the precise point - zero - there is slipped between the legs on the sidewalk of ice mixed with snow and has pushed the 2011 into our lives by the back door.

I like to think that this will be different from all other years not just because I'm sure of when it started.