and everything tastes like wine
my friend said that last night, smoking cigaretts in the cold with no jacket, wearing flipflops no less. some closet-made wine, bud ice, miller high life,and smirnoff warming in our bellies.
I want to write a poem with that line, i thought that as soon as i heard it. I became desperately afraid that i would forget it. But apparently, i havent. Everyone else went to bed around 2 i think, it seemed like it, i went to bed at 3:30.
For what seemed llike 2 hours I talked about philosophy. I became the romantic sort of drunkard. Sitting at a table in the bar, cigarette in his hand, waving it about frantically talking about some thought or another. Everything so incredibly important, only weighty intellectual topics discussed. and though he is impaired by drink and spirits he can still communicate to you the innermost workings of the world with a certain charisma.
I talked about many things, things i have been dying to say, but had no one to say them to. but with a bit of spirits suddenly any audience would do.

in a sense it was a perfect way to celebrate 600 pages here, 600 groupings of thought. To have come full circle. from the time i started this diary when i attmepted to spout philosophy, then through samsara, at least a year of completel doubt and very inward very shallow concerns, all the way back to here, drinking and contemplating human individuality.

happy 600 bi-polar