In the coil of years, you return and return to the interval when you were born one cosmic wrinkle at at time and consider its significance. A measurement of 365.25 days, a calendar date notching the progress of a life. Gazing backwards, you wonder at your youthful proclivity, and question the wisdomgained if any, o mortal Janus, squinting into the shrouded future in a futile effort to haphazard your path. Where am I going? How did I get here? Why, of all these days, do I have to think this today?