The Rider on the Wheel

There's nothing to report. People are still living and dying alone, the same way it's always been. People are still smoking the same brand of cigarettes they always smoked, still buying their papers in the same newsagents they always did. People are still buying things they can't afford, praying to Gods that never reply, telling everyone that they're alright when they most certainly are not. And the Rider at the Wheel, in spite of how fucked-up everything currently feels, is doing the same speed as always: it's only in your head that things are speeding up or slowing down.
It's New Year, so what have you resolved? To quit smoking, that's a popular one. Or maybe to lose a dress-size, cut down on chocolate and cheese and bars of lard. Maybe you didn't resolve anything¦ maybe you reasoned that your life, as flawed and fucked up as it is, doesn't actually need improving ' "let the chips fall as they may, as they say, and who really wants a life ruled by mirrors and weighing scales?
Maybe someone you knew died last year, and it still just feels like some sick fucking joke - you can't cry now and you never will.
Or maybe you bought a ring in the January sales, the ring that she pointed out to you as being the one that she loved, and tonight at the restaurant you're going to pull it out when she least expects it and, fingers crossed, it'll fit.
Maybe this year will be The One.
But whatever happens, whatever this New Year brings, there's one thing you can be sure of, a certainty that might bring you comfort some day:

The Rider on the Wheel, he just keeps on riding.
He carries on at the same pace, come what may.