whisky

We cannot buy it. We are too poor. Then men who have made the law have taken our own drink from us, and have not left us wherewith to buy it. Yet they can buy it, because they are rich. I have a feeling that that is not just. I do not grudge them their riches and all it can buy for them.

Horizons, cheap whisky straight from the bottleand your hands in mine.

So I am not a broken heart. I am not the weight I lost or miles or ran and I am not the way I slept on my doorstep under the bare sky in smell of tears and whiskey because my apartment was empty and if I were to be this empty I wanted something solid to sleep on. Like concrete. I am not this year and I am not your fault.I am muscles building cells, a little every day, because they broke that day,but bones are stronger once they heal and I am smiling to the bus driver and replacing my groceries once a week and I am not sitting for hours in the shower anymore. I am the way a life unfolds and bloom and seasons come and go and I am the way the spring always finds a way to turn even the coldest winter into a field of green and flowers and new life. I am not your fault.

My life is ruled by four W__: my writing, my work, my wife, and my whisky. Not necessarily in that order.

Whisky, gambling and Ferraris are better than housework.

He tasted of whisky and his skin was rough where he hadn__ shaved, but Mirabelle kissed him back.

I have rooted myself into this quiet place where I don__ need much to get by. I need my visions. I need my books. I need new thoughts and lessons, from older souls, bars, whisky, libraries; different ones in different towns. I need my music. I need my songs. I need the safety of somewhere to rest my head at night, when my eyes get heavy. And I need space. Lots of space. To run, and sing, and change around in any way I please__uter or inner__nd I need to love. I need the space to love ideas and thoughts; creations and people__nywhere I can find__nd I need the peace of mind to understand it.

He sat beside the window in the dark, with his eyes closed. Hearing to the sound of the rain. The whisky in his glass burnt his throat, while the smoke of his cigarette filled his lungs and the fire inside his heart consumed his soul slowly.

Superficially my war was a comfortable exercise in futility carried out in a grand Scottish hotel amongst the bridge players and swillers of easy-come-by whisky. My chest got me out of active service and into guilt, as I wrote two, or is it three of the novels for which I am now acclaimed.

There is indeed one person who can help solve __riter__ block_. His name is Mr Johnnie Walker.

While I can__ walk on water, I can certainly wobble on whisky.

The light music of whisky falling into glasses made an agreeable interlude.

Scotch whisky is made from barley and the morning dew on angel's nipples.

Along the pavement-colored hall doors stood half open on either side, all the way down; each one was numbered in bright bald tin, each one stood just so much ajar in the gas-lit corridor. Just enough to reveal half-dressed men and women waiting for the rain or about to make love or already through loving and about to get drunk; or already half drunk and beginning to argue about how soon it was going to rain or whose turn it was to run down for whisky or whether it was time to make love again or forget it for once and just wait for rain.

The salt is to the food, what soul is to the body.

We love our mother because she cares and also because she cooks.

A good food is mouthwatering when you see it and finger licking when you eat it.

Some people when they see cheese, chocolate or cake they don't think of calories.