My Cardboard Balcony

Processing by Belinda Roddie 2018 is just a number encoded in an endless tomorrow of sequences I am digits and cryptic messages built from languages misunderstood by my neighbors They can slice me open examine each part of me each component and gig of memory but I will simply dissolve into strings into sequences into yesterdays while 2019 remains an endless tomorrow

This is the part where I close the door to 2018 and do the latch so that it can't be opened again. I know, it's simultaneously a really weird but also really clichéd metaphor for it. I guess you'd have to close the door no matter what, given how time works. And I'm not a Time Lord, so I can't exactly revisit anything. Point. I had a point. Happy New Year, everyone. Hope this one sucks less.