Diary of a Drug Fiend

The Wings of the Oof-Bird 97 What one needs is sound common sense to take reasonable measures according to the physiological indications. One needs elasticity. It’s simply spiritual socialism to tie oneself down to fixed doses whether one needs them or not. Nature is the best guide. We had got on to the game. Our misadventure at the Petit Savoyard had taught us wisdom. We were getting stronger on the wing every hour. That chap Coué is a piker, as they say in America. “Every day, in every way, I get better and better,” indeed? The man must simply have been carried away by the rhyme. Why wait for aday? We had got to the stage where every minute counted. As the Scotchman said to his son, half-way through the ten-mile walk to kirk, when the boy said, “It’s a braw day the day.” “Is this a day to be ta’king 0’ days?” Thinking of days makes you think of years, and thinking of years makes you think of death, which is ridiculous. Lou and I were living minute by minute, second by second. A tick of the clock marked for us an interval of eternity. We were the heirs of eternal life. We had nothing to do with death. That was a pretty wise bird who said, “To-morrow never comes.” We were out of time and space. We were living according to the instruction | of our Saviour: “ Take no thought for the morrow.’ A great restlessness gripped us. Paris was perfectly impossible. We had to get to some place where time doesn’t count. The alternation of day and night doesn’t matter so much; but it’s absolutely intolerable to be mixed up with people who are working by the clock. We were living in the world of the Arabian Nights ; limitations were abhorrent. Paris was always reminding