It comes around once every four years. The space-time continuum cannot be denied and a new impossible day must be born, run its span, and die. That year is now and that day is today. This event impacts the lives of those born during it. They exist in a strange nether region where their birthday too comes only every four years yet the ravages of time occur to the same inexorable beat as the rest of us. They might celebrate only the twentieth anniversary of their birth before dying, outliving their sixty year old children. Envy them not. Pity them not.
That's all I have. I'd hoped for something more, but nothing came to mind between the first of the month and now. I would like to say, just as a bit of commemoration for the history books... Rest in peace Davy Jones of The Monkees. I'll try to keep being a Daydream Believer.