As we are currently intra-apocalypse, I will give you a kind word to see you through until not the next Christmas, but the next after, when the Mayan calendar turns over to zeroes, and their computers mostly short out or something.
I keep a little journal. In it, I wrote this tiny poem, likely between other tasks.
Turn Your Leaden Thoughts To Gold
She's baiting bears and burning up highway,
Her underground reality casts shadows on his fear,
A crew-cut Samson fills the doorway.