I set this post to go up at midnight.
There is a faint freshness in the London night as though some strayed reveler of a breeze had left his comrades in the Kentish uplands and had entered the town by stealth. The pavements are a little damp and shiny. Upon one’s ears that at this late hour have become very acute there hits the tap of a remote footfall. Louder and louder grow the taps, filling the whole night. And a black cloaked figure passes by, and goes tapping into the dark. One who has danced goes homewards. Somewhere a ball has closed its doors and ended. Its yellow lights are out, its musicians are silent, its dancers have all gone into the night air, and Time has said of it, “Let it be past and over, and among the things that I have put away.”
As I said on a bygone New Years Eve:
I wish all our ChicagoBoyz contributors, readers, friends, families, and all people of good will, a heaping portion of good luck in  and a mere dash of trouble, just enough to flavor the dish.
Fear God and dread nought.
Happy New Year.