Behind the door, a picture of twelve drummers, drumming. This is not supposed to happen, not yet. The drummers should be fast asleep, or dozing at least, tessellated one over another in that strange space somewhere between tradition and public consciousness. They should be vaguely aware their time is coming, counting it out in the small wakeful parts of their minds, marking the beats as their bodies idle. They are not supposed to be drumming, not yet.
You open the next door, tomorrow’s door. Pipers galore. Then men jumping, women spinning.
You burn the calendar before you get to eight.