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The whisky bears a grudge against the decanter.

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Alcohol Grudge Whiskey

Bagwalas

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Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.
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End Fly Greatness Head Image Myself Pursue Trouble Word
Birth was the death of him.
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Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.
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Sometimes I wonder if I’m in my right mind. Then it passes off and I’m as intelligent as ever.
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What do I know of man’s destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
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Destiny Fate Man Myself
Dance first. Think later. It’s the natural order.
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We are all born crazy. Some remain that way.
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What are we doing here, that is the question.
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Action Life Question Spiritual
Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.
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If I was dead, I wouldn’t know I was dead. That’s the only thing I have against death. I want to enjoy my death.
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I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.
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Fail, fail again, fail better.
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Against the charitable gesture there is no defence.
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Perhaps my best years are gone. When there was a chance of happiness. But I wouldn’t want them back. Not with the fire in me now. No, I wouldn’t want them back.
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Any fool can turn a blind eye but who knows what the ostrich sees in the sand.
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