Auf Wiedersehn to 2017

Greetings, gentle readers.
This morning was a good morning by my standards.
I was up before the dawn, scarfing pills and washing them down with a freshly made pitcher of limeade.  Splashed some habañero hot sauce, soy sauce, and yesterday's leftover wor wonton soup into a big tupperware bowl and microwaved it longer than you would expect.  I turned on the telly and waited for the Manchester City v. Crystal Palace game to convulsively spasm its way to a baffling nil-nil conclusion before starting the hitherto unseen film "Birdman" featuring Michael Keaton (real name: Michael Douglas).
The frost and ice on the windows indicated that the weather outside was murderously frigid.  The deep chill that arrived at the beginning of the holiday season has yet to cease besieging the people of the north.  New Year's celebrations nationwide have been cancelled, relocated indoors, translated into online activities, or projected onto warmer electronically virtualized environments.  Ghostly draughts whispered through the house as the others dreamed lazily in their warm beds.
The warm broth of the soup was soothing and comfortable, a contrast to the frenetic bebop drum riffs that accompany the film's opening scenes.  My tastebuds entered some sort of zenlike experiential dimension wherein every flavour and ingredient was disintegrated and compartmentalized.  The chives and ginger in the wontons were nice and fresh, but the bak choi in the broth was a bit too old and bitter. 
Meanwhile, "Birdman" was bemoaning the enormous existential tolls paid by actors who sacrifice their souls and lay bare their deepest sufferings in pursuit of the fundamental rapport with the human condition.  Actors risk everything while the rest of the bungled and botched humans drag out lives of quiet desperation in anonymous inauthenticity.
In the end, the mystery meat was lovely, the dumplings were filling, and "Birdman" was not as much of a self-indulgent thespian wankfest as it could have been.  The pain was manageable, the light was self-fulfilling, and traffic was subdued enough for me to recognize individual trains as they scraped past the house.
Quiet.  Relatively undisturbed.  Allowed to believe that I may exist alone.
And then the year turned.
Until next time, goodnight England and the Colonies.
—mARKUS