We have to out-drink the world. Drink our way ahead of it. Drink ourselves into the future.
A draught of madness, that’s we need. The wine of madness. We need Bacchus on fucking side. We need Dionysus as an ally.
How mad do we need to go? How much madder? How much farther?
Of course, our madness is really a counter-madness. Our madness is really a madness against their madness. Against their delirium. It’s a protective madness, of a sort. It’s a sheltering madness.
We fight their madness with a madness of our own. With mad weapons of our own. We’ll match the hyperbole in reality with our hyperbole in speech!
We’ve sent each other mad, that’s the problem. We’re incapable of moderation. But these are the times! Moderation is impossible in our times! Madness has broken out in our times! General madness, in our times! You can’t hold it back!
Every drinking night is a desire-for-the-world’s-end night. To drink is to desire the end. To drink for the end. To toast the end. To laugh at the prospect of the end.
We’re coming to it, the end. We’re rushing forward to meet it, the end. Just as it’s rushing to meet us. Our hour, the end. What will save us: the end. The axe blade falling. The flashing light, reflected on the blade.
Work in Progress 