On this of all occasions I am reminded of how pointless everything is.

This year is dead, as dead as the leaves were in November as bored people trampled them in the icy rain.

But what follows? Another empty year. What are years??

I have heard it said that people usually die at the turning of the tide, just before dawn, or in autumn.

Autumn: the turning of the season.

The year is measured in seasons. But we have imposed our arbitrary laws on it.

**** doesn’t get shat on January 1st. But we think it does, because we say so.

The universe goes on, doing whatever it does, and we are insignificant.

Dust. Excrement. Ashes.

And so I lurk here, near the closest thing I have to companionship, while I watch Sweeney Todd for the 7th time.

Maybe I’ll pause it long enough to watch the clock on my laptop turn over.

Or maybe not.

Happy new year, my fellow balls of soot.

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