Be doers of the word, and not typers only.

The Passion of Anna, by Ingmar Bergman, is so depressing. Thank God for God. Especially when one thinks of the solitude one once aspired to. I’ll take the hustle and flow of this bustling life any day, now, that I am slightly older, and, possibly, slightly more wise.

Amaretto, couple of splashes; vodka, jigger or so; Coca-Cola, half a can - too sweet for regular consumption, but ok for washing down cheap cigars.

That’s the last of my consciousness.