There are no concessions to the glories of Christ in a Scottish winter.
Savage rains tear apart the idealism of the perfect scenes.
The nativity is trashed by excruciating wetness.
The ache of darkness is populated by depressive states of opportunistic grief.
There are no stars of Bethlehem to guide you through the formless evocations of nothing happening on Aberdeen streets.
The world exists in the suspended animation of its unexplained fury.