Write my life, Vincent.

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
It gives a lovely light!

Sometimes the way I think of the world is that it's a dreadful, smelly day in the bad part of summer.

You know that part of summer- lots of people die, especially old ones and babies, crime is up, and happiness seems impossible.

But there's a child blowing bubbles. Because that's all you can do on a day like that, for fear of sun stroke.

And those bubbles are the loveliest and perfectest. Inside, it's always 74 degrees and there are only clouds if you want them, and everything smells green - unless you want it to smell like fall, which it can because it's a bubble and bubbles by their nature are magic.

I feel like I've slipped into a bubble. And I hope it's one of those bubbles that doesn't pop right away, but floats way up high and out of sight and goes on an adventure.