The days at the bottom of the year, that's what these days are, up here. The cold, the dark, the fear, in older days, that the sun would disappear; prompting dread, and horrors of sacrifice and outrage, to appease those gods that are not here. It happens again. It happens every year. The feasts of Saturnalia and other nonsenses draw near. The lights, the sights, the stuffing in of oft' unwanted damn good cheer. Happy nonsense everybody. Happy nothing. Happy miserable merriment, often fake and forced and hated, bloody merry muddled mixed up mess of maudlin madness, maybe, maybe manageable, just, without more damn tears from you again, my dears.