A Year Gone By

Time like an ever rolling stream,
Bears all her sons away;
They fly forgotten, as a dream
dies at the opening day.

Isaac Watts, I believe.

Today, the first day of the new year, yet it feels no different from any other day. I like the ethereal quality of time, so much like a dream. It only exists as a memory (at least for those of use who cannot perceive it as a distinct dimension), so intangible.