Don't you just love/hate/love/hate it when it's 2:30 in the AM and you know you have to get up early tomorrow morning but there's a poem in your head and you're worried that if you don't get it into a vase of water right this very moment it's gonna go and die on you?

Just watched The Tracy Fragments. Wow. Really, wow. You've probably never heard of it. But now you have so... y'know go watch it. You won't regret it. Okay you might regret it. You'll say "fuck me" quietly to yourself, or maybe not out loud, or maybe really damn loud about a million times. You'll struggle with whether or not you should be disturbed/bothered/enraptured and it'll strike some kind of chord inside you that will resonate like a master's violin, and it won't be the pleasant warm kind of resonating, it'll be that kind that feels like a cold vibration on your back, the kind that feels like your fingers when you're playing outside and it's way too cold for that even by the fire. Cuz you'll want to scream out "yes, yes, I understand, I see the picture you're painting, or maybe I feel it, and I can't even describe it, but how the hell did you get inside my soul. But you won't because you'll feel like you shouldn't get it and might not like that you do.

And then it'll finish and you'll sit there and you'll start thinking about however you've managed to define beauty in your life and you'll wonder if what you just saw was beautiful or not. Because it can't possibly be beautiful. It can't because... well because it can't. But if it's not beautiful than what the hell do you call that?

Or maybe you'll hate the whole thing and fall asleep. Who knows.

Watch it. Seriously. Worth it.

So anyway, I've got this poem bouncing around in my head. Literally (figuratively) bouncing, it's one of those ones. That'll probably show up in how I format it. It's probably showing up in how I write this. I mean of course it is, but 'robably' is always more poetic.

Except when it's not.

Anyway, time to get the damn flower in the vase before they wilt.