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It used to have mass, this era that’s going. It felt it’s own weight, it’s gravitas when showing to nations that worried about growing, that war and economy and force and hegemony were the way to use Man’s dismay – to make money.

Now, this ex mass, that’s just about gone, this lightweight Executive bereft of the heavyweight hitters like Churchill and Wilson, Kennedy and Brezhnev, Marxists and Maoists, Leftists and Rightists, light, lighter, lightest as policies blow like leaves in the wind of the monetarists’ ills.

Sentiments were enough to even sound real, as mass meetings regaled the minds and the hearts of daughters and sons of battle worn parents, who together marched their familiarity toward this, our ex mass media’s trust, transformed unforseen, into our modern mediocrity of lightweight contempt.

Ex mass pickets talk of lines of holding will, waves of hollaring, wailing resistance, wrailing against the brutally policed winds of a centrally planned, globally financed, politically calamitous, irreversible change.

No going back, there’s no going back for a while yet anyway, to the ex Mass with just one Pope. First, there’s got to be an Xmas clue, an Xmas clue to the coup that taken all the world’s leading of its led energy completely by surprise. This energy that is equal to the mass of the known Universe multiplied by light travelling at a speed that is impossibly multiplied by its own speed again, this energy now burgeoned by an excess of mass extinction warnings, is an energy tricked, trickled, yearning for a returning rheostat.

Here, now, here, now, now is the place of your receiving. Now is the ground of your conceiving a new way, a new path, though it looks deceivingly simple, sounds ridiculously – simple. It is the simplicity of stopping, when the falling off has done its job, the bike is ridden. When the mass graves of Mankind’s insanity have finished with their calling of freedom from the despots’ broken voices, the sudden simplicity of a critical Mass of Peace turns Xmas, into Christmas.