Want to be depressed? No, it's not another political post, so just relax. Franz Schubert wrote over 900 separate pieces of music, nearly all of them very good at the absolute bare minimum, many genius, some utterly transcendent.
He died at 31.
Happy birthday, man with the glasses, un jour far worthier of celebration than the diabolical blight on humanity that was born/spawned/fabricated/conjured up 67 years ago yesterday. Oh, and that fucking Ashcroft tune? Sorry about that. Here, imbibe some actual artistry to magically cleanse the aural filth clogging up the byways of your mind.
Schubert's Im Früling sung by the legendary Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau.
Feel better, no? If not, you could always try booze or weed.