There's a calendar on the wall. Pages peel off it, it's ink representing the months and the days of a year that no-one can predict nor judge nor prescribe much meaning to.
There's a finger that keeps pointing at this calendar on the wall. As the pages fall away, things start to happen.
Time leaves space open for consequence and reaction, allows those who perceive it to create in the blank white box of each day in the grid of each month in the sheaf of a year.
Create and cause and change. Bold decisions are made, lousy cop-outs occur, births, deaths, naming of life and loss.
Pictures and words stop being records of the moment and settle into the lengthy discoloured stint of archives.
The record makers throw up their arms, extend their middle fingers and thoroughly express their displeasure at the calendar.
It lied to them. It disappointed them. Those black lines on white paper once made sense.
What a tease. What a cheat. What a rotten development. This year was meant to be a good year, the year on which only good things happened or nothing new happened at all.
Through opening up to zeitgeist, the calendar made a promise it could not keep.
The hand that pinned it to the wall, now rips it off. The fingers that smoothed it, tear it to pieces. Money is spent on the next calendar.
The new year begins. Everybody waits for something to happen as they stumble forth, about their own and the world's business.
The first day is marked.
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