Tis the season for bleeding. Tis the season for fleet footed misfit rebar swung like chariot over throat. You can’t say Christmas anymore, is the claim, but vanity’s okay so long as your blessings come as head shakes. So long as the fig tree ceases its fruit and the moon casts shadows on your drawbridge so long they might as well capsize. Light a fire under your mistlefoot. There’s no soot left to burn.