We must always be drunk. Everything is here, that's the only question. Not to feel the horrible burden of the time that breaks your shoulders and leans you to the ground. You have to get drunk of it without a drunkenness. But of what? Of wine? Of poetry? Or of virtue? As you wish. But get drunk of it. And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace, on the green grass of a ditch, in the dead solitude of your room, you wake up, the drunkenness already diminished or disappeared, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, all that flees, all that moans, all that rolls, all that sings, all that speaks, ask what time it is, and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, will answer you, it is time to get drunk of it. So as not to be slaves to the martyrdom of time, get drunk of it, get drunk of it constantly, of wine, of poetry, or of virtue, as you wish.