It’s hanging off the wall. Twelve papers a piece. Twelve papers and a fat carton at the back. It always has it. This grayish thing. It comes with the price. It comes in handy. It stiffens up the package, you know? The carton is for free, the carton and the cover page. How could we forget. The cover page. The eye catcher. The cliffhanger. The make us curious page.
What silly thing this fancy calendar. Showing the time by not showing the time. Twelve pages a piece. Twelve pages full of numbers. Not different numbers. The same numbers. Always the same numbers. 1, 2, 3, … it gets boring after three. Twelve pages with twelve numbers. Twelve pages with twelve numbers and even more numbers. Numbers, numbers, numbers. Numbers and days. Days, like, Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays. It gets boring after Wednesdays. Numbers, numbers and days. Numbers that add up to each other. Days that represent a sequence. Numbers that end at different levels. Numbers, days and a magical seriousness behind them. Mystical. Mystical indeed.
It wouldn’t be that bad. The calendar I mean. The concept has survived the centuries. The spirit lives. The information stayed the same. The meaning changed. The use case changed. A piece of art. An advertising gift. A fine print of something toxic, evil, out of place. A car, a bike, a naked woman. You got that right! Here she is! How dare you are! Put her out of your mind. A forgotten art. Printing on paper I mean.
The future is here. The calendar survived. Useless numbers and days add to each other in order to make suddenly sense. A success story or a coincidence? It doesn’t really matter. They are hanging everywhere. Literally everywhere. The concept has survived. And so they will stick a bit longer to our walls. Hiding the truth, showing the time, representing a definite amount of time. Twelve pieces of paper are hanging on the wall. At my place, at your place, at everyones place.
Shoutout to the calendar. Long life the calendar.
See you next time!
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