65 days to go and already I feel like quoting poetry.

'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'

...is a great thing to chant in your head when you're aching with anticipation. I love The Raven; it's a pretty depressing poem if you look at it narratively, not the kind of thing I'd normally revel in, but the cadence of it is just sumptuous.

I really need not to be needing this much when December is so far away. But at the same time, it's not like I want to stop caring, at all. The delicious agony of fannishness...