Twas the night before Christmas, when all publications, had ceased in their production of science revelations.
The scientists working throughout the whole year had retired to their homes for the holiday cheer.
I was certainly ready for the festive season, with the presents all wrapped and the lights for the tree on.
But while on the sofa for a moment reclining, I realised a post was in need of refining.
But what could I write about, what could I say, I put my head in my hands and I thought in this way; until suddenly a sense of chill filled the air and what I saw next to me gave me a scare.
Standing before be, examining my shelf, was the ghost of Sir Isaac Newton himself.
The phantom of man born four hundred years prior, who seemed now as real as a shimmering fire.
Though his body was gaunt, looked almost unfed, the scattered stars were what danced in his head.
His hair was like straw curled up into rolls while his coat resembled the same colour as coals.
Through a study on quantum he gave a quick look and then with a smile he slid back the book.
With a wink of his eye and a small nod of his head, he abated any left feelings of dread.
With a pen of goose-quill a note he did scrawl, and in a brisk movement it was pinned on the wall.
As I strolled over to check what it said, my back was turned and in that moment he fled.
And all that note said was what I now write:
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”