let’s be clear, that guy is not getting some kind of groundhog day-esque do-over. he is alive in a dead, still 2015 — silent and eternal, like a tomb. “happy new year,” he screams to the gray-litten planes of expiry. he will bleat these words, forever too late, until they become pointless sounds that catch in his throat, dry and guttural, as void of purpose and meaning as his once-familiar surroundings. indeed, as he himself.

but let us not dwell on such things, friends. another glass of champagne for us: those who escaped