A year is a collection of days. These days fashion themselves into months, which clump together into seasons, both hot and dry, cold and wet. But only one continuum extends as far as we can walk. All else arbitrary. All else rationalizes what we look away from. That being our own end, from which we run, even as we draw nearer to it still. Peering back through the wine-sweet debauched years at the dull bluntness of youth, with the long and short of our yawning parched futures hunched on our bony shoulders. With the many crisscrossing paths diverging from our own, now choked with twisting brambles, now hiding forever what secrets they may once have held.