Whisolstice Greetings

"Ah, the Whisolstice!" they exclaimed, with the glee of a thousand unmade beds. In these days of yore, faux enlightenment is but a fickle friend, and sincerity is a rare commodity locked behind the velvet ropes of a high-end gallery.

It is said that during the Whisolstice, shadows embrace irony with the warmth of a summer's night. Here, truth is a distorted mirror, reflecting not what is, but what could be if only the stars aligned with the alignment of one's bank statements.

On this day, the naysayers become sayers, and the absent-minded philosophers reconvene at virtual tables to sip on cups of skepticism and sprinkle their pastries with salt—much like life itself.