December runs headlong into January and here we are, another million million miles away from where we started but somehow still in the same place. Still here, still now, and that seems important, the timing of things.

Green is now white. White is really gray. And I sometimes confuse gray with green when they get too close under certain lights so really all time is the same in the end. If things were brown or red, then we would have some real color, some way to tell things apart. Red like the blood in my skin, ink to write with, pigment to paint with, wine to cultivate the fields of words.

A million million words with nothing real to say, just a way to keep the keys moving, maybe find some rhythm or pattern in the pitter-patter of letters falling like rain from a shaken dictionary, turned upside-down and whipped through the air like a bed-sheet. A black, literate rain, but without the impact of real words, just something to keep reading, a trail of letters to keep your eyes moving, so that I might exhaust myself or you, and somewhere in between these run-on sentences there might be a gem worth keeping.

That has worked for me before. Regurgitate a dream, vomit up some images, purge up vital detail remembered from a long night of pot and whiskey. And then get to work. Edit. Prune. Clip. Stitch. And there it is, my patchwork Prometheus.

Last year was a wash. Nothing achieved, nothing created, nothing to hold onto but the memory of places long ago and far away, people long ago and far away, and they were never mine, just borrowed for a little while.

It's time to get back into the God business. Take ownership.