This is my New Year’s Eve prayer:

You my love are allowed to forget about the Christmas you just spent, stressed out in your parents’ house.

You my love are allowed to shed the weight of all the years before, like bad disco clothes. Save them for a night of dancing, stoned, with your lover.

You my love are allowed to let yourself drown every night in bottomless, wild, and naked symbolic dreams.

You my love, in sleep can unlock your youth and your most terrifying magic, and dreaming is for the courageous.

You my love are allowed to grab my guitar and sing me idiot love songs if you’ve lost your ability to speak. Keep it down to two minutes.

You my love are allowed to rot and to die and to live again, more alive and incandescent than before.

You my love are allowed to beat the shit out of your television, choke it’s thoughts and corrupt its mind, kill, kill, kill, kill the motherfucker before the song or zombie fight, pain, and panic, and malaise and its narrow right-winged vision, and its cheap commercial gang-rape becomes the white noise of the world. Turnabout is fair play.

You my love are allowed to forgive and love your television.

You my love are allowed to speak in kisses to those around you and those up in heaven.

You my love are allowed to show your babies how to dance, full bodied, starry-eyed, audacious supernatural and glorified.

You my love are allowed to suck in every single endeavor.

You my love are allowed to be soaked like a lover’s blanket in the New York summertime with the wonder of your own special gift.

You my love are allowed to receive praise.

You my love are allowed to have time.

You my love are allowed to understand.

You my love are allowed to love, woman, disobey, when little man believe.

You my love are rebellion.

-- Jeff Buckley
from Live at Sin-e