simonkelly

Irony: That is the tragedy of life, there is such great comedy. I just made the hardest phone call of my lilfe. A call that was possible only because of two sweet shots of vodka. I called my estranged wife to let her know that I know, she is now with another man...

Odd, to sit still in such a situation. Odd, the way you consider yourself in such moments... I have consumed Nietzsche, given lectures on Kant, know full well that R.S. Thomas is the greatest poet of the twentieth century. I have giving eulogies for mice that my kitten has killed, and, truthfully, I dropped a tear at the thought.

I believe in the sorrow of man, and, paradoxically, I believe in his glory. Present to me a wretch, and I shall see nothing but a saint. For they are the same, but from a different point of view.

I have been cheated on by a hipster, by a sophist, by someone who's passion is fashion, who's grace is nothing but face...

Tell me. Who is tragic here?

(Aristotle, in the Poetics, would certainly side with me... but, perhaps there is another view).

Not a drunkard (except for tonight), not a child (except for tonight) not a coward (except, perhaps, tonight?).

And yet, somehow, not enough of a man...

Life. It is fantastic.






N.B. Yes, there are four shots of Absolut in me right now. A shot a minute, catch my meaning?