Beautiful humans, I started to write you a story but when you write stories about people you knew decades ago while knowing them again now, you realize your earlier stories about them were mistakes, all lies —
and yet wicked true.
And you realize your writing may hurt them, the truths as much as the lies, those beloveds you knew years ago and know again now.
Of course, you realize that after hours and hours hard at work on something you then realize is unpublishable.
And you take it all down, or leave in traces only as elegy —
Only as troth to a future they assure you again and again is impossible, while asking:
Can it be true? Will you make it come true?
So you sacrifice a cock to Apollo, beloved of the Muses, and to Talia and Terpsichore, all the while praying, Bless the work. You learn on Facebook, that font of wisdom, that Yule is also Arthur’s birthday, so you beseech him: Bring fairyland back, and hurry it up!
You write another chapter of the Tales of Avilion, and you answer:
Of course. When?
Never, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry.
But would you, if you could? Would you make it all true?
Yes, darling child, I can make it come true.
Make a wish.
Close your eyes.
May all your wishes come true, dearhearts.
Merry Christmas.
Thank you for being here.