The bog has dried up. Open up your eyes and you’ll see your caked boots. A stream of water is trickling in from the sea, washing the dirt from your legs. Twelve months of standing and waiting is disappearing into the distance, resetting the universal dial back to zero.
The goddess of the rainbow is stirring. She has plopped her pretty feet on the floor, looking around sleepily for her winged shoes. Her son has been up all year, still fucking the flower faced boys from the last festival; shaking the selenite towers on her nightstand with perpetual love. Her pride shines, reflects off the gold cup before her. She pours the waters of the Styx from her pitcher and takes a sip.
The next amount of time will different, but only if today is.