A year creeps in, a personal best of aging as ever. Time's march has no reference point save time itself. Winter's grip tightens, flexes, quivers a bit. It's supposed to be change's turn. We wait and watch and bait our breath. Perhaps the end of night is nigh, perhaps the letter "t". We may find out. We may not. I sit and ponder shenpa.
Hooked. Attached. And loving it. Maybe, just maybe chance breeds change. But maybe too it doesn't. We find out by finding out. I bluster and blather and treasure every moment of laughter. Such as they are. Change. Please. Soon.