The bells rang vividly through the cold misty evening as the carolers passed by,
Their serenades intoxicating the air with more and more of that red-green aura.
Busses, cars, and even an old man with a rickshaw zoom down the street,
Promising themselves they wouldn't let up the eve someplace away from home.

A silhouette emerges from the church carrying something wet and shiny.

Two cars topsy turvied and the passengers fell asleep.

Three men point exploding pipes at each other until they all fall down.

Four women braid each others' hair with clenched fists as the red mists paint the white brick wall.

Five people, all in a row, collapse onto the tracks of an oncoming train and decide to let go.

But the omniscient presence in the domed cloud sees all as a musing, for what are we but inklings?