To all those who are alone. To all those who loved and lost. To all those who are the trees, standing decorated and smelling of pine. To those with newpaper blankets and a pillow of stars. To those with more bones than memories and silent smiles in lips sewed together with barbed wire. To those whose mouths taste like cigarette smoke and longing. To those who tangle their hands in long hair and breathe in the scents of napes of necks. To those with violet cream breathing, tangled in faerie lights underneath the lights of french skies. To lovers with lying lips and bruised hips. To the hurting, the crying, the screaming and the damned. To the happy, the joyous, the glorious and the glowing. To the dark, the light, and the grey. To the librarians, to the fighters, to the awake, to the slumbering. To the religious, to the heathens, to the dreamers, to the realists. To the motel mothers, dime store sweethearts, with a penny and a bunch of fives, grinning at a free meal and the clasped hands of sinners in unwashed sheets. To the truckers, sleeping. To children with sticky hands and candyfloss tangled hair. To backstreet gypsies, chinese street vendors and pretty-skinned fishes tied up in plastic bags. To the women who wreath themselves in mesh and glitter, feathers and silk and the nuns in alcoved corners thumbing rosaries, praying to God. To all those mortals underneath Ethiope's might:

I love you.

And I hope this season makes you blissful.