On a tree spun from silver tinsel, a shiny ornament hangs.
There, in that small space, a simple sliver of perfection sparkles and shines.
An encapsulation of Christmas, and all its purity and falseness laid bare.
A thing of beauty, purposeless but for its prettiness, as if being pretty was ever enough unto itself.
As if it wasn’t.
Christmas divines such magic, while putting faith and trust in so few words grants them greater import than were they to get lost in a longer post.
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