One must always be drunk. Nothing else matters. So as not to feel the awful weight of time that crushes our shoulders and presses us to the ground, we must be drunk without respite. But what with? With wine, poetry, or virtue. The choice is yours, but be drunk! And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace, on the green grass of a ditch, in the blunt loneliness of your room, you wake up and the inebriation is waning or has disappeared, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock. Ask everything that flees, everything that cries out, everything that rolls, everything that sings, everything that speaks, ask what the time is. And the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, all will answer that it is time to be drunk. To not be the martyred slave of time, be drunk, be drunk without respite, with wine, with poetry, with virtue, the choice is yours.