In which seasonal tributes must be paid early and dearly,
In which Jareth displays a modicum of common sense, and the world somehow does not end.
So far behind. November has kicked me down a flight of stairs, productivity wise. I blame that big horrible (and poorly done) monstrosity sitting in the wings...
Erik belongs to Leroux and Webber.
Jareth belongs to Henson, Lucas, and Bowie.