Turn water into wine, kill a wren, a man, a pig or the sun. Burn candles or clocks, coax the sun out with a mirror; give presents to your gods, your mothers or each other. Whether you’re marking the birth of doomed god or the arrival of a man riding a goat to bring presents; whether you’re hitting the sales or keeping away from it all; whether the turning of the seasons from the moribund fecundity of Autumn to the brightening cold of Winter’s embrace is for you a literal or a lyrical event, I hope you all have a good one.