Windows and awnings are now framed with flickering bulbs: the cityscape’s architecture is sketched by cycling light. The shops, regardless of their original purpose, are teeming with knee-height stormtroopers.
It is Christmas.
Tell me what you want and how much it costs: I’ll wire you the money. In a last vestige of ritual, let me Moonpig you an ironic greetings card: something with just a hint of warmth but a breath of beer about it. We are, after all, in it for the leisurely obliteration.
My angel is on the wall, far from the tree. Her eyes are rimmed darkly, their pupils devoid of judgement.
In a multiverse, there is even more room for celebration and thanksgiving. My wall-bound angel knows this, and a smile cracks her wooden face. As my head clears and my temples cease their pounding, my gratitude is unbound for this thin sliver of sentience.
Jew, Humanist, Christian, Atheist, Muslim, Hindu, Scientologist and Jedi: whatever your credo or absence thereof, I wish you a measure of grace, gratitude and the space to regard the sheer enormity of our happenstance.
May our Forces bring us together.