Three to Christmas, 18 A.C. - joneworlds@mailbox.org At this hour, here underground, the passage parting the malls is empty. And there's that christmas music floating loudly through unseen speakers, floating and finally falling on no one but me. Maybe it's always been playing? I'll never be sure, as there has almost always been a din through here. Now, on a night as late and unlikely as this, the music fills the way, like water pours into an empty cup. And the emptiness is so present. I'm soaking in it. I've passed through here many times before. But after what happened today, maybe this will be the last time. Glittery christmas decorations on the arch-ways and over-walks, and tiny little lights. Footfalls far too loud for landing. I had been happy here once, and while I would be happy again, this drawn down walk is a strange scene to sink into. Coming past the donut store, I think a coffee will taste good. There will be no sleep tonight, anyways. "Thank you." A smile, and that tiny tick of time to take it in, that was all it took. And here, underground, after everything that had gone down today as it had, here was that spark of comfort in strangers, stranger still than me to myself. So sweet and fleeting. The weight of this day and the consequences, not yet three hours burned out by now, will be brought to bear in the hazy days and reeling weeks to come. But for right now, still there is this. Merry christmas... to all of you who want that, and to those with the spoons to spread it where needed.