Within a man dwells a fountain of energy that lasts for a single day at a time. Today he reaps the fruits of yesterday’s deeds, and whether the fountain of yesterday was spent enlivening his spirit or depleting his vitality, he will prosper or suffer for it in the morning. The greatest defense he has against himself, that is, the great likelihood that he will squander much of his vitality by worrying, fretting, fidgeting, or idling away, is to sensitize his stomach to the insanity of what he usually allows himself to swallow. Stories are always being concocted inside his head as he misplaces his role as the axel from which the wheel of life turns. And positioned in such a silly way, his ego has no choice but to contort and distort every detail into a whirlwind of endless dramas, portraying a world that never seems to value him highly enough. The anecdote in a crazed situation is to always turn conceptions upside down, inside out, or simply throw them out of the window and so leave the senselessness for the cinema. Men must notice what it is they are doing as they brew up storms of frenzied thoughts and waste the energy of the day on sheer fantasies.