The Great Star of David has been there all along and no one with the greatest text can change the rights and parameters that this home has the North Star as a functional guident of the truth which the most brilliant of the doctors and doubters fear not explain. Be it known too that the diffusion of clouds or the misting of smoke from the nearby village made this the pole star shine brighter one night so that the shepherds without reflections from the moon could still see all their sheep in the field and from a lean-to not far from their flock they heard a baby cry so that when the sun rose welcoming the morning day a multitude had formed about the birth thus greeting new life unto the land.
So unto this day, the twenty-fifth in the month of December, one Christopher Hitchens arose as he did the day before and every day hence with a bit of a weight holding upon his brain making vision difficult in the noontime rise. The first steps upon the richly adorned oriental make movement possible if the memory of where to go next could be fixed with surety, but it is the sounds of running water from the nearby bath which makes the mirror possible just a few wobbly steps away. Then to have gaze astare reflect back blue eyes swimming is a magenta sea cautions one to call the allergist for the problem does persist. Warm water and a bright shave will change everything as the Dominican housekeeper brings in a tray with bagel, grapefruit and fresh black Jamaican coffee. Her words “Feliz Navidat” conger up that religious cult which only the poor, uneducated, and unskilled continue to consider seriously; but soon, self management will restore itself and the world from a keyboard and CRT linked to the Internet awaits new miracles from this Oxford trained mind. For just yesterday gifts arrived from the literary agent with information that one hundred thousand libraries have reordered multiple copies anticipating that this is the making of a new Gutenberg stamp to the whole literary world. All this makes for another reason to celebrate when stepping while wearing a silken robe into the private den with stacks of books and writer’s desk centered by the blessed computer as the children dash in and out wishing that this Tuesday of the Feast Saturnia they could be in school rather then clutched at home stricken to watch holistic drivel consumed by commercial greed controlling all broadcast content on the multi-channel cableized telly. Now, at last, there stands the proof no mere alcoholic resides here, the treasured bottle of $800.oo a litre twenty-five year old single malt scotch a something which no simple wino with a real alcohol problem could ever afford.