All men are enemies. All animals are comrades.

… in spite of or in defiance of the whole of existence he wills to be himself with it, to take it along, almost defying his torment. For to hope in the possibility of help, not to speak of help by virtue of the absurd, that for God all things are possible – no, that he will not do. And as for seeking help from any other – no, that he will not do for all the world; rather than seek help he would prefer to be himself – with all the tortures of hell, if so it must be.

—Søren Kierkegaard

Anonymous asked: how do you make money?


black flag - my war

Anonymous asked: what is the secret to life?

takin’er easy.

I wrote a book of poetry and had it bound in leather.

It’s really fucking good and you’ll never get to read it. This is some e.e. cummings (lower case for all my hard core cum fans) level linguistic mastery. It’s so good that if Bukowski read just one prose he would have stopped drinking, gone through withdrawals, attended AA, lived a sober life, opened a brick-a-brack shop, and then destroyed it all in a downward spiral of drunken rage. My poetry would make Christine Friar nod appreciatively…but she won’t. I’m just too humble to let anyone else read it. I couldn’t handle the fame, the Pulitzer, the Nobel Prize, all that attention. It just sounds like too much for me.