I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no Melancholy. - Charles Baudelaire

Each day we’re one step further into Hell,
Content to move across the stinking pit.

Ascend beyond the sickly atmosphere
to a higher plane, and purify yourself
by drinking as if it were ambrosia
the fire that fills and fuels Emptiness.

Free from the futile strivings and the cares
which dim existence to a realm of mist,
happy is he who wings an upward way
on mighty pinions to the fields of light;

whose thoughts like larks spontaneously rise
into the morning sky; whose flight, unchecked,
outreaches life and readily comprehends
the language of flowers and of all mute things.

With wine, poetry, or virtue
as you choose.
But get drunk.