The calendar says late fall; the unrelenting grey, the bite in the West wind say early winter.

The days will grow shorter still for two more weeks.

The ways of the world:

Hymns are sung to the season of peace and goodwill amongst men.

Another genocide report has been released.

Values float free of reality.

People stock their liquor cabinets before the crush on Christmas Eve.

Hollow eyed children stare into the rubble; children’s eyes agleam in the forest of Christmas life.

Existential injustice.

Everyone is dead: one cannot help but feel sad; everyone is alive: one cannot help but feel happy.

There is no contradiction.

The 80s are back!

Drone bombing. All out ballistic missile attack. Revenge strike.

The overnight snow limns the boughs of the cedar tree: a Bailey’s and coffee.

What immortal hand or eye can frame that fearful symmetry?

There is nothing better than shortbread, except shortbread and a whiskey.

Power grid collapse. Oil depot fire. Apartment block implosion.

It all happened, just like that.

Taking the pass on the fly; cutting hard to the net.

They were dancing when the shooting started; the bass drowned out the grenade explosions.

The pink roses, still in bloom.

Middle aged conscripts hunker, trapped in a fire pocket.

Meat grinder assault.

Eat, drink, and play, the downtown holiday way!

Civilians flee rebel advance. Will the country disintegrate?

Buddhists, Christians, Hindus, Muslims, Jews; Anarchists, Conservatives, Liberals, Marxists:

The philosophers have only interpreted the world.

No one knows how to change it.

The calendar says late fall; the unrelenting grey and the bite in the West wind say early winter.

The days will grow shorter still for two more weeks.