The end-of-summer winds make people restless.
That's what opium does to suffering: makes it of hypothetical interest only.
My direction? Anywhere. Because one is always nearer by not keeping still.
Gradually the feeling wears off, and I feel swamped again by the inexplicable pettiness of being alive.
Oh, the sweetness of giving in, of full surrender.
The best thing is the combined effect of nicotine with alcohol, greater than the sum of the two parts.