No going all diamond-eyed at the sight of the lit-up rain on London streets. No nighttime fear of the piano’s bared teeth. No more leaving the hard decisions until Mercury’s in retrograde, and absolutely no pasting of the fortune cookie notes to the fridge. A year for the safe passage of spiders. Of the letting-out of skirts. The year of holding flowers at the hip in memory of ghost women; when you (fail to) recall the face in the mirror’s just burnt, brushed sand. A year of catalogues. Of soldering the pencilled calendar dates together to keep the acid leak of the unknown at bay. A year for the striking through of futurity, and for the electronic embrace of a “predictable, calculable, and programmable tomorrow.” You won’t even wrinkle. All this so, when the monster calls, he’ll slip instead across a neighbor’s threshold. All this so, when you crave brick shuddering against your back, you’ll know instead the safety of the wing-backed chair. The quiet, horse-hair velvet throne that grips the nape and pledges peace. Arterial red. Electric.