Uttered wishes don’t come true. There’s a breach of contract in the act of saying what you want.
It’s the reason we’ve never reached world peace. Every pageant queen sliding it out between clenched white teeth, ruining the surprise before she blows out the candle.
We’ve mined out wishes from the earth and put them out on display; dioramas marked “a wish for a better tomorrow” Mason jars full of eyelashes just longing to be blown to the wind, dandelion free.
How can we ever expect anything but the decay of our future?
It’s all boiled down to this singular wish – a sideways stare at this candlestick, and no matter how nimble, no matter how quick, whatever we think before the blow, won’t change what we know about tomorrow.
Once we make a wish, There’s no more room for light.