How I stopped worrying and learned to trick my brain, the satire of Kawanabe Kyōsai, and the lengthening days of Eastertide.
Take this air of young-damp earth At eve: this same night again repeated As if rehearsing its rebirth Until death itself defeated. 
RIP Christopher Alexander, the last bastions of the American Elm, and John Michael Greer reups catabolic collapse.
Ai Weiwei’s memoirs of a life in perpetual opposition, the nature of Internet and Time, and Ash Wednesday coming with gifts of ashes and dust.
and those little Christmas lights spread across the sky
Georges Braques’ quiet dedication, Robert Frost’s snowswept voids, and the Irish saints bringing gifts of poetry, art, and honey.
who saw the dry Earth and said: Yes 
Taking stock of the year in my little kingdom, RIP Didion, and why does Christmas have twelve days, anyway?
One little, one last
David Graeber’s anarchist paleo-anthropology, Albrecht Dürer’s encounter with Aztec art, and welcome to Advent.
In which your faithful ornamental hermit delivers his wide-eyed dispatches from the open road.
Nothing can be salvaged, but nothing will be lost.