Well-well-well, my glorious December, let's dispense with the formalities and come straight to the point: each syllable enunciated, strongly emphasized, yet not initiating a sober programmed crescendo.
As you may very well imagine, much has been going on: fluxing and re-fluxing, crisscrossing. In the end, each and every of us travels the same distance: traversing it in a comfortable carriage, burrowing their way underneath the barbwired fence, rocking back and forth in a roller-coaster. Here is being drawn another demarcation line - a very fine one indeed, if you ask me.
See, I lost 10 out of 12 hands of cards to resentment, conceit, anger and boredom. A crisis of something or other, of conscience - or confidence - anyway, quite as much as needed to cross Holland road, my PNR metaphor. There, October closed in above my head, a tame joyless fair at an end. I waged a suburban war. I'm surely not alone in wondering what happened on the battlefields then, and in being amazed at the kaleidoscopic nature of some events. A circle this time - and not merely a roundabout way, - it was nothing, if not true.
Softly pierced by the Christmas tree needles, I poise, absently caressing my hand - to reestablish, once more, the appeal of it. I would sink my teeth into what's, perhaps, has been bestowed upon me by the inferno itself: I rejoice in my knowing that i'm forgiven, by myself, too. And, brimming over with most ardent affection, with healthy commitment and nonchalant joy, I emerge from less than nothing to belong within 2017 in some few hours, to make one new loop around the sun, as ever curling back towards myself. May shy, yet diligent luck simply be with us in there, and till kingdom come.

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