One can perhaps only find the deeply embedded sensations nestled within each object of the holiday season by gaining the critical distance from the holidays by spending them alone. The sorrow of each image becomes increasingly apparent the more the earth veers toward catastrophe. But the hope of the light pouring through the cracked door on Christmas morning remains, albeit it is more clandestine. It requires meditation and the sober attentiveness of each and every sensation. Sensation is where the lines between the natural and aesthetic converge. One is able to stroll in the darkness of twilight, one moment under pines, strange shadows cast by the moonlight, and the next moment the shadows seemingly instantaneously become my own, cast by a singular electric light in the eternal decorum of a gaslamp. The cold breeze hearkens the senses. When one is able to find a select few images that are not subsumed into the cultural apparatus that blurs the lines between advertisement, entertainment, and idolatry, it is as if these illuminations make a desperate attempt to display the possibility of a world reconciled and affirmed. It is drag, adornment, that shows the faint glimpse of a world in which existence is something of celebration rather than fear and guilt. It is the virtual sensation of pure affirmation, like the smile that rises from the soul of one who feels the pure love of being momentarily cherished.