2 p.m. beer nothing matters but flopping on a mattress with cheap dreams and a beer as the leaves die and the horses die and the landladies stare in the halls; brisk the music of pulled shades, a last man's cave in an eternity of swarm and explosion; nothing but the dripping sink, the empty bottle, euphoria, youth fenced in, stabbed and shaven, taught words propped up to die.
Charles BukowskiSometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think, I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside โ remembering all the times you've felt that way.
Charles Bukowski