Huginn: The years of their days are purely artificial divisions.

Muninn: And yet, they cling to such demarcations with fondness, regret, and sentimentality.

H: Here is a book, full of the matter of a year. Here are faces, which will all one day be forgotten.

M: There are many such books. I know them all.

H: One wonders why they keep such ephemera.

M: Perhaps, that is all they have.

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