A book you own has a different ending every time you open it.

It’s your journal so obviously it would have.

You love the thought of it being forever unfinished.

Except one day it would be.

Someone else would open it and the page that turned out to be the last penned would be there.

The finish, the final ending to this winding, occasionally surprising, ever delighting and often completely inexplicable story called life.

May the writing of that page not be today.