But how stupid are the men who dramatize the passing of the year, said the moon looking down on the earth last night. He looked at them from above, plump and lonely, in the light of itself, while they set fire toritual New Year's euphoria. Scream, shots, congratulations, all for nothing, just to sanctify a trifle, a feast not for men nor gods, births nor deaths; agitated to celebrate only the passing of time. To delude ourselves of a transit between the No longer and the Not yet. But how stupid are the inhabitants of the earth, the moon said to herself, what do they have to toast for a day like any other, a handful of moments between the light of a passing year and the unknown darkness of another that comes, and then vice versa. Senseless carousel of time, that only atavistic lunatics can praise, faking farewell and welcome ceremonies to serial lumps of days.

Barrels, bomb, outbursts of racism in the sense of year-end rockets, shots of a festive war against unknown people, in the name of a passing homeland that lasts the space of a moment, in crossing the border between two imaginary countries called Annovecchio and Annonuovo. Imbeciles with a human face celebrate the new that ages them and the tragedy of becoming; they toast to New Year's Eve, the word says it, he is in charge of the damage called time-passing. But what do you want to do?, luna, we are vintage children, we are playful imbeciles, we only get excited about vain and senseless things. Our luxury is the Absurd; its magic bewitches us. We are symbolic animals, we are sacred beasts, hungry for cathartic rituals, superstitious gestures and propitiatory acts. Other than technicians and accountants. We are playful and ritual animals, game meat.
MV, The newspaper 2 January 2013
source – http://www.marcelloveneziani.com/articoli/la-luna-e-i-falo-dei-capodannati/