[A New Year, A New Time]

Today is being drained of its moments, its minutes, its hours; tomorrow regains them but new moments, minutes and hours- they are all vacant, all vital. Brittle does time seem, fragile is the human life, a flagellate rogue of its inherent form, forfeited of its physiology. We rise in these newly formated moments, or fall, find the beginning of the road to everything we are seeking or nothing at all, a dense brush, thorn-riddled, lushly perilous.

Another year of our lives has faded, fallen, been erased, bygone, as our forefathers who preceded us knew of decades of new year arrival. Their interstitial is not ours, their lifestyle, their know-how, are not ours, but our own is our own and we must own our own if it is to ever be our own in our own rights and our own terms.