My own self

"There must be some kind of way out of here."
Said the joker to the thief.

That. It was. I think. With the.


Wow.


Entire fourth season, one giant feint, and I fell for it. Vague religious undertones turns beautiful spiritual marinade (if a little overly Lion King-y), and as Mr. Moore himself reputedly said it; "It's the characters, stupid."

I cried. Many, many times before it was all over, I cried. Sobbed twice. I think I laughed too. I had my guts twisting in awe and terror. I certainly felt nauseous with dread of it all being oh so close to ending several times. Eighty-four hours, Mr. Olmos? Is that all? Even if you add to it sleeping-time, that's not even a week. If this wasn't worth eighty-four hours, there isn't much that is.

There were so many moments in this double episode to remember and praise I don't know where to start. Except I do. With a man, turning to tears at his own mention of something so simple as farmland. With another man, cutting down the snake in the grass, the sun reflecting in his saber. And with two people and a cabin.

This show, this amazing, brilliant show, for all its virtues it wasn't always perfect. But dear me, it frakking is now.

Thank you, people.

For Battlestar Galactica.