Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone.

War is the continuation of politics by other means.

- Clausewitz

To the German Commander.

NUTS!

The American Commander.

"Of all God's creatures, there is only one that cannot be made slave of the leash. That one is the cat. If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve the man, but it would deteriorate the cat."

Leaving is not enough; you must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes. Your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him, and you did and now you pull down the bridge between your houses. You make him call before he visits. You take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge, and you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong. They can smell it in the street.

"Throw a stick, and the servile dog wheezes and pants and stumbles to bring it to you. Do the same before a cat, and he will eye you with coolly polite and somewhat bored amusement. And just as inferior people prefer the inferior animal which scampers excitedly because someone else wants something, so do superior people respect the superior animal which lives its own life and knows that the puerile stick-throwings of alien bipeds are none of its business and beneath its notice. The dog barks and begs and tumbles to amuse you when you crack the whip. That pleases a meekness-loving peasant who relishes a stimulus to his self importance.

The cat, on the other hand, charms you into playing for its benefit when it wishes to be amused; making you rush about the room with a paper on a string when it feels like exercise, but refusing all your attempts to make it play when it is not in the humour. That is personality and individuality and self-respect -- the calm mastery of a being whose life is its own and not yours -- and the superior person recognises and appreciates this because he too is a free soul whose position is assured, and whose only law is his own heritage and aesthetic sense."

" A poet should be so crafty with words that he is envied even for his pains."

― Criss Jami, Killosophy

Anton Chigurh: Don't put it in your pocket, sir. Don't put it in your pocket. It's your lucky quarter.

Gas Station Proprietor: Where do you want me to put it?

Anton Chigurh: Anywhere not in your pocket. Where it'll get mixed in with the others and become just a coin. Which it is.

"A cat has absolute emotional honesty: human beings, for one reason or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not."

𝑪𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒆 𝑯𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒅'𝒔 𝑷𝒊𝒍𝒈𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒆 [𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒘𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒔]

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘴,
𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘦,
𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘴,
𝘉𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘚𝘦𝘢, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘤 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘳:
𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘔𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘕𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦,
𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘸𝘴, 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘭
𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘦, 𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦,
𝘛𝘰 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘜𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘦'𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘭.

𝘙𝘰𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦 𝘖𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘯--𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭!
𝘛𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘷𝘢𝘪𝘯;
𝘔𝘢𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯--𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭
𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘦;--𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘥, 𝘯𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯
𝘈 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘯'𝘴 𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘸𝘯,
𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯,
𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘩𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘶𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘯,
𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦, 𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥, 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘴,--𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥𝘴
𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮,--𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘦; 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥𝘴
𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩'𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘴𝘦,
𝘚𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘴𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘦𝘴,
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥'𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴
𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘺,
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩: —𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘭𝘢𝘺.

― George Gordon Byron, 1788 - 1824

"The smallest feline is a masterpiece."