Speech in time, hailing from a future unknown. Heading through a past too known, or most too barely unknown as to be any consolation. No sweet souls here, thank you very much; they are always the first to get eaten. Not that my soul was eaten, mind you, after all I am writing this prose in a somewhat hopeful note of regret, or a symphony of melancholic celebration. Everybody loves a party, everybody. Here’s a rule with no exceptions, which makes it into a law; Law assuch really. And that’s precisely why I find it so depressing.
I am typing in the living room of my chilly, dimly lit apartment. This Chicago morning is blandly gray—nothing new under the wan wintry sun. But it’s December 31st, the one day of the year that harbors the promise of beautiful novelty. We will soon flee from ourselves and become completed humans. We will vow to make a minor adjustment, which also stands in for every adjustment we possibly could make in order to perfect ourselves. We will start again. We will make New Years resolutions.