What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire

by Charles Bukowski

I held my head in all its tender precious agony and we drank together. “feelin’ bad, kid?” he asked. “yeh. yeh. yeh.” “kid,” he said, “I’ve slept longer than you’ve lived.”

I liked being young and mean. the world didn’t make any sense to me.

I wish to weep but sorrow is stupid. I wish to believe but belief is a graveyard. we have narrowed it down to the butcherknife and the mockingbird. wish us luck.

may this night never see morning as finally one night will not, but I do suppose morning will come this day