How’s it going? No, don’t tell me. You may wonder why I’m writing to you — disembodied, calendrical abstraction that you are. The fact is that I have occasionally made an effort, during the winter holidays, to address the oncoming year; sometimes to offer guidence, other times to beg for mercy. As far as I can tell, it’s done no good. But there we are.

Nevertheless, you might still wonder why I am writing to you, 2007, when your day is almost done. The problem is that I’m not entirely sure why I’m doing it either. Except… maybe it’s got something to do with my unshakable belief that 1997 was the best year of my life. As the tenth anniversary year of that… year… maybe I want to lambaste you for not living up to that standard. Maybe I want revenge.

Of course, that’s impossible, isn’t it? Even if you were some tangible thing, you’re at the very end of your own life. As we speak (or, as I speak to you), the final hours and minutes of your essence are being worn away, eroded by countless ticking clocks. In fact, in some parts of the world, you’re already dead.

Are we inclined to gloat? To take joy from your inevitable passing, as you’ve seen fit to be so cruel to so many over the course of your lifetime, is certainly tempting. But no. You’re too big, too abstract. It wouldn’t be satisfying, and I’m not sadistic enough to really enjoy it anyway.

No, mostly what I’m looking for is making my peace with you before you’ve gone. Abstract though it may be, New Year’s Day is the bright line that allows a person to consign a managable portion of his life to the inaccessible wastes of history. So that’s what I’m doing. Thanks for being there. Thank you for ending.

And now, all I want to do is forget everything that happened this year. And, if I’m very lucky, maybe I’ll sleep through the next.