Dear Santa Claus

To @wakeupkitty

I have this dose of morphine that a sad tramp left behind on the grass. I have grass—or is it just an illusion? All that remained was his clothes (the tramp’s), staining the filthy street’s cobblestones. Still, I have electricity, which makes no sense, but it’s a fact. Otherwise I couldn’t write about the sad loneliness of a street sweeper who hides behind his banners of splendor.
I picked up the vials with tongs; I keep myself far from these worldly vices that scourge both men and beasts. I walk while whistling an entire catechism; no one listens to me—a mere street sweeper isn’t a center of admiration. I just live in my world of madrepores and spores; I’m so clean amid all this garbage that I radiate hearts and a luminous halo hangs over me. This halo is expensive. Not because of the virtues, but because of the energy bill.
I have the means and I collect every leaf that falls in the park. Most of the time I’m invisible. Invisibility is almost as good as having blankets and a wool hat for Christmas—you stay warm, and you drink instant coffee or tea. While it snows (in another latitude) in the video I’m going to play right at that moment.
Dear Santa Claus, it’s true you no longer have reindeer. How do you manage all the hard work? Do you still bring gifts? Yesterday I was rummaging through the trash and found some reindeer antlers. I instantly pictured your multicolored sleigh. They had used them for cooking; all that splendor reduced to ashes.
Dear Santa Claus, people scream and scream again. They inject filth just to keep going. It’s a strange picture, with sculptures and people dying. An anatomy full of precise, fragile incisions.
I had a bag of potatoes fluttering over the sea. It arrived in a flock of pelicans. I tried to count them for fun, but couldn’t—they were too scattered. Maybe next season, on their way back, I’ll manage to count them without falling asleep, without falling silent.
Dear Santa Claus, I hope that next Christmas I’ll stop hauling bags of trash, I’ll have a cleanly trimmed beard, and I’ll ask someone to plug in the old television for me so the first snowflakes start falling—in the video where everyone looks happy.

With joy, I once again have the minimum conditions to write.

The image was created by me using a prompt, in grok.