I am bellowing the choral part of the fourth movement of the Ninth (Beethoven's, who else) and my life is a gloriously sparkling panoply of darkness and glitter right now. For the past several hours I have spent many millenia communing with my brother-beyond-blood and am reminded that there are so many beautiful things* in this world.
We have spoken of who we have been, who we are, and what we may possibly become.
Oh dear, past, present, future. How much more pedestrian and trite can such a trope be?
Unfortunately, how true it is.
This post - written in the post-conversational haze (the mental equivalent of a post-coital haze) may be updated with further musings as the night proceeds and the wine is drunken. (Update: It may actually not be.)
I love you, Clutch-mate.
Anyone denying the beauty of Jonas Kaufmann (the tenor whose face you see here) is...blind.
*my favorite, most esteemed English professor abhors this noun, and I try to avoid it, but when I'm drunk, lazy, or some combination of the two I indulge in such sloth. Check both those boxes, please.