The calendar is irrelevant. It has been too many events for any creature of self-awareness to remember the origin of these sounds with any more sentiment than a simple in put to out put machine, yet they return as if they were made for these moments. The Imp King and his army of broken gods send their regards by means of bent metals, overdriven electronic impulses, and handcrafted elegance beyond the comprehension of modern manifestors. In deed, what is a tubular bell, a keyed organ of pipes, a music box, a harpsichord? Ah. But /you/ remember. /Don't/ you? You remember these tools well. Once, together and with their friends, these tools could weave fine darkness in the pressure of air, and now they shall do so again. Through shadow and harmony and dissonance so shall the march against space-time take step, and soon- very soon- there shall be no thing /left/ to remember, my friends!