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I'm not convinced that the universe is terribly impressed by our counting system. Nor the Earth. It's a dismal day. Morning and yet already noon. Windless. The ground damp and strewn with leaves from rain that was days ago. Noiseless. The ominous sound of loss. Or is it merely the sound of televisions enthusing within tightly sealed homes. The motionless pretending to participate in turmoil and excitement. Perhaps the world is ruminating. Anticipating. Or perhaps it is doing what it always does, though we always suspect otherwise. Uniquely. Uniformly. Unimpressed.

Eggs scrambled in a scalding pan. Sourdough toast. Butter dripping through the holes. And Mexican espresso. Breakfast at noon. An event strangely worthy of the decade to come. May our years be ordinary but useful. Simple but pleasurable. May our thoughts be still but complete.
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