Today's been hard. Nothing in particular, just one of those days when I didn't manage to do anything right. And as if that wasn't enough, I have this stuck in my head, which, well... you probably have to be Hungarian to get the full gloom value of it. Don't bother with the English version either--it's pointless, as most English translations of Hungarian poems are.
As a point of side interest, the poet (Jozsef Attila) once wrote love letters to my great-great-aunt, who was a psychiatric nurse in one of the hospitals in which the poet (Hungarian poet, remember) spent time. (This is less impressive if you are Hungarian. Apparently he wrote a lot of love letters.) She tossed them, because, well, he was crazy. He later killed himself by jumping in front of a train. (Not because of her, I assume.) And they named a university after him. (The one I went to, in fact.)
Only in Hungary. Seriously. I mean, just imagine that here. Sylvia Plath University? Not so much.
Listen to this instead. More fun.