Arbitrary measures of time further lose relevance when the reality they demarcate tumbles in perpetual decline. To those for whom a year's circumstances are reset upon its conclusion—what is the secret of such sorcery? Your lesser kin behold a chronology of chronic collapse, acceding to its demands while straining to reach its reversal.
In Another New Calligraphy's fifth Impossible Task, missing bodies slip between great grasping fingers while glitzy beetles deploy their gleam. Misogynists' skin turns to plastic as a name wilts in one's mouth like a lily in the desert. Birds burst through and carry us through black. Grandmother's freeway exit is forgotten; hearts swell with the acid of gone. Bent needle legs pull thorax up from sand to hatch, take fifty steps in naked rage. Blue beams travel out beyond the earth suddenly cooler than ever before, hearing crickets serenade in Morse code.
Please give yourself a quiet moment to enjoy Impossible Task.