New Year’s Day. No television, or newspaper, to remind me of the world outside. No news-of-the year in review. I can tell myself better lies than that. Nineteen seventy-seven. Seven years to 1984. Time enough for our bodies to regenerate themselves, for all our cells to die and be reborn. Thirty-three years to the year 2000. Christ’s age when he was crucified. Time, and its mysterious parallels. Its fist upon the door.