Rita Hayworth singing 'Put the blame on Mame' is one the most beautiful things I've experienced, ever.
Every time I watch the clock pass midnight, it feels like turning over another page in your notebook. The lines look up at you, waiting to be filled, and you're excited to crown it with that primal flourish.
I watch the hours count up, each following the next in mechanical precision, and I wonder, am I better off left alone? Would I, should I face eternal solitude, be devoid of the need for a Friday? Or could the endless unexplored vistas of creation in my thoughts be enough, peppered by these amazing memories I hold dear?
If I had a bucket list, finding out would top it.
