Oh, bliss! Oh, heaven shall be somewhat like this! Words, words, beautiful words! For a mere five dollars and change, I have, at my fingertips, one hour and nine minutes of art for my ears and stuff for my thoughts to longlinger over.
Don't worry. I won't start assaulting you with made-up words just because they tumble tipsydrunk off the tongue. I would never.
I. can't. stand. it. It makes me so stinkin' happy, I can't stand it.
Poor Tim. He came rushing into our bedroom to see what all the vocalizing was about, and found me jumping violently up and down on the bed in my jammies, pumping my fist, gleefully yelling at the top of my lungs:
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle !
Be a hero in the strife !
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !
Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Act,— act in the living Present !
Heart within, and God o'erhead !
Just kiddin'. But I wanted to.
And now, I'm jacked up on Audible-poetry-crack.
(I don't have an addictive personality.)