By Friday of this week, you will have exorcised enough ghosts to be able to wander the East Village unencumbered by memory.

Perhaps you would destroy each other if either of you had the time or inclination. Or perhaps it was all empty threat between people who play too much with words. Either way, the gods have thrown up their hands and granted you both the barest wisps of regret. Everything fades and you emerge, for a change, unscathed. Offer up some eggs to Santa Clara in gratitude for the averted storm.

By the end of the year, you will learn to shape sadness into peace. An empty room, a quiet flute, the fig tree yearning for sun - all transmuted into a symphony, all transformed into a story carved in wood, all offered on a pyre, the tendrils of smoke bringing wishes, grief and love up to the overcast sky.

Swathed in a hotel's white sheets, you will view the city from across the river, skyscraper lights competing with the tv screen, a man in a white suit with his guitar gently weeping.

I have no fortunes for you, only tears.

Do not look back, lest you turn into a pillar of salt.

A surprise will arrive in an oddly wrapped yet extremely appealing package. In your haste, remember not to tear at anything with your teeth. Only precise and nimble fingers are acceptable.