Hi, I am Bater, Master Bater.

It's a peculiar thing, familiarity. For one, it let's you think you know a person. And, should you like that person, it gives wings to you imagination. That, in particular, is a dangerous thing.
It is dangerous because what we concoct in the mind is seldom a representation of reality, which can become a disaster in the making.
But I am still a proponent of it. In the sense that it is an indulgence which is desirable. For there is always beauty in the imagination of a romantic. That, if understood and enjoyed, knowing the pitfalls, can be a marvelous experience. Just as drugs are.

Do that, or do drugs. Your pick.

Winter is coming.

That smell is back. That, which plagues the cooling air of end-autumn. At this time of the year it's ubiquitously spread out. It creeps into my nostrils and reminds me of an aimless melancholy.
To think I used to like this smell is an increasingly fictional thought. I am going to have to deal with it now, till winter truly sets in. Then, I will catch a cold.

So, when I woke up in the morning, I wasn't hungover. I was still drunk.

Falling Old Ladies by Daniil Kharms

"Because of her excessive curiosity, an old lady fell out of the window and smashed into the ground.

Another old lady looked out of the window, staring down at the one who was smashed, but out of her excessive curiosity she also fell out of the window and smashed into the ground.

Then the third old lady fell out of the window, then the fourth did, then the fifth.

When the sixth old lady fell out of the window, I got bored watching them and went to Maltsev market where, they say, someone gave a woven shawl to a blind."

This is genius.