It is no longer the new year, just Tuesday. Stores and airports and newscasters still mention the holidays, as they fill shelves with Valentine's tchotchkes, as security lines get shorter, as stories turn to politics and commute times. The shine has worn off. Time is relative, in the complicated way that physicists mean, but also, in the New Year sweeping across the globe as it spins, in the countdown to returning home from visiting family, in the interminable commercials and parade coverage and sports broadcasts. An hour in a good movie is shorter than fifteen degrees of rotation, an hour of relatives fighting over referees' calls lasts an eternity. Imagine, if you can, closing your eyes and stopping the spin of the world, the solar system, the galaxy. A sudden stop (catastrophic to be sure), but in that moment, how loudly would silence sound? Imagine it's a Tuesday. No more hum of the furnace and refrigerator. No more grattling noise from televised talking heads. No music, no coughs, no ticking clocks. The silence would be deafening, before the rush of blood in your veins overpowered it. (You can hear it sometimes, blood moving within - the thum-thump of the heart. You can see it sometimes, eyes clenched tightly, or wide open on a uniform canvas. The body making itself known, present, a cat running between walking legs "I'm here! I'm here!") Just Tuesday, another day, the one after yesterday. There isn't confetti, fireworks, or champagne, just a commute, laundry, cleaning. Mundane. Behind the noise of traffic, the beeping of checkouts, the thrumming of fans and computers, under the prattling of colleagues and strangers, the telephone ringing, and braying commercials, without fanfare or countdowns, thum-thump in the darkness. Just Tuesday, again.