The Old Year shuffles towards its place of execution: a two-sided scaffold where Olde Father Time waits for the chimes of midnight with his gleaming scythe.
A drunken crowd has gathered: Champagne Charlies and Charlottes wearing spangled party hats, draped in colorful streamers, chewing the plastic mouthpieces of silent, broken noisemakers, occasionally casting a bleary eye at the clock.
Meanwhile, in another time zone, it's still afternoon and Uncle Janus can't remember which of his two faces should be facing forward when he exhales January winds into his part of the world
And the New Year itself? A pink, puffy child screaming on the threshold of a door marked 2016. I hope you know how to change a diaper, dear reader, because there's going to be a lot of crap coming.