I’ve been carrying this fortune around in my pocket for weeks.
The sentiment is, of course, amoral, and I suppose there ought to be all sorts of caveats about the quality of the dreams you may or may not have had in your youth (world domination and unlimited helpings of chocolate fudge being dreams that are, perhaps, better to have laid aside).
I still like it.
It helps me to feel, as the last bits of the sunshine pool against the brickwork in the yard, that the day wasn’t really a waste. That it’s ok to have spent the afternoon plotting a novel I may never write—and certainly won’t have time to work on for months and months.
The cookie made me.