I like to argue that years have arbitrary ends and beginnings. The dates thus differ from culture to culture. Sadly, my argument does not apply to my yearbooks.

Addendum (January 3, 2020)

My complaint, if that is what this haiku actually amounts to, was repeated exactly a decade later, albeit in many more carefully chosen words (“Blame the Calendar,” December 31, 2019). Four days ago, I argued with passion bordering on irritation that the calendar kept butchering my writings by arbitrary divides. Yearbooks, that is. True enough, but it was I who introduced them at the very outset of my writing project. Back then, I had no idea how long it would last. Three or four years, perhaps? Arbitrary or not, the divides now strike me as way too many. There are forty-five yearbooks already, for crying out loud! And there are likely to be quite a few more by the time I kick the bucket. Luckily, though, the World Wide Web is oblivious to all complaints of this ilk. Whenever I search my Residua, I find everything I am looking for as though the calendar does not even exist. The same applies to the clock, I hasten to add. Divides, what divides?