at the sign of the prancing pony

I happened to skip over to the Fellowship of the Ring soundtrack on iTunes, which hasn't got a proper listen out of me for--a year, likely, and suddenly I am twelve years old again and, inexplicably, feel a little bit like crying. I remember the exploding wonder of Tolkien, and reading the books thirteen times in a year, and counting down, and translating lyrics and having my go at epic (and thoroughly tripe) fanfiction, and translating terrible pop songs into Sindarin (NO LIE: I AM ASHAMED), and parodying, and quoting, and theorising, and going to the films in costume, and--it. Tolkien was such a huge part of my life, and then it sort of...faded, and I miss it, terribly. Which is all very silly because the book (and The Silmarillion, and Unfinished Tales, and half of The Histories of Middle-earth--our nasty, smudgy little copy of The Hobbit is either packed, disintegrated, or otherwise hidden) are on the shelf over my desk, and the Extended Editions of the films are sitting in a neat if dusty row not ten feet away from me, and...I'm really not sure what I'm saying, actually. I remember it being magic, unexplored territory, something new and terrifyingly magnificent, and maybe it's been long enough since I've been in that world that I can find some of that again...er, watch me disintegrate into pretentious metaphors.

Um. However, you haven't lived, really, until you've seen the brilliantly awful Engrish subtitles for the films. No, seriously, you haven't. I've been quoting 'toast me' for years.