planning the metaphorical winter of my life.

Periodically, I feel old. Really old. This, as I am fully aware, is utter lunacy. I am young. I have not lived a quarter of a century. (I am youngish. I have lived almost a quarter of a century.)

Today, however, I found the perfect combatant to prematurely inappropriate thoughts of age. Courtesy of Sigur Ros.

I don't have a five-year plan. I don't have a ten-year plan. My one-year plan is terrifyingly vague. But rest assured my 45-year plan is solid, complete with firecrackers, dirt clods, and a wooden sword.