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11, 12

January 1, 2012

seamless,

despite the desire for sudden shift,

like the air changing colour on the stroke of midnight

(although that’s perhaps what the fireworks are about)

.

when the smoke clears

and the party subsides,

it’s only the incremental mysterious mechanical number change,

ever increasing the wager,

turning the dial.

.

an hour passes, and then a day,

a year, and we spin on a point, twisting upwards along the thread

ever revolving

ever evolving

gathering dust and shedding dust,

walking tall and crawling under the wire

and acknowledging our compadres

trudging through their own fields

.

taking a moment to consider our spot,

our path,

and its miscellaneous intersections;

a concentration of goodwill, charge of luck and ignition of fate,

as we slip across

the click of the clock

along the thread of our life

seamless

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