The night before New Year’s Eve. I feel no impulse to make resolutions, nor desire to herald change. There hardly seems any point, there’s been so much of it this year. Transformation has become ether.
Looking back, it's all a bit of a blur. I remember the things I’ve written about, but I can’t recall feeling them, not really. There was never time for anything to seep in, except in dreams lost moments before waking.
I suppose that’s what this interregnum is for: to provide a space for review, and for release.
Some bands are playing in Griffintown tomorrow. I think I’ll go.