Goddamn near everything worth living for gets better with age, assuming you survive long enough to feel it.

Whiskey, for one. And not that bottom-shelf swill you guzzled in your twenties just to shut your brain up no, I’m talking about the good stuff: the kind that tastes like smoked oak, regret, and redemption in equal measure. You don’t sip that. You negotiate with it.

Then there’s madness, refined with time like an old jazz record or a scar you stopped explaining. When you’re young, it’s just noise and chaos. But give it a few decades, and suddenly your paranoia has texture, your delusions wear silk suits, and your anxiety starts quoting poetry.

Perspective? Better with age. When you’re young, the world’s a shotgun blast of neon promises and godless speed. Later on, you start to see the cracks in the pavement and the beauty growing out of them. The noise becomes music, the chaos becomes choreography. You realize that peace isn’t the absence of war, it’s the moment you stop needing a reason to fight.

Even your enemies age like wine. The old bastards you hated in your youth? Now they’re just characters in the strange opera of your past. Hell, you might even toast to them, if the moon’s right and your heart’s not too bitter.

So what gets better with age? Everything real. Pain, if you’ve learned how to wear it. Love, if it’s still hanging around. Stories, if you’ve got the guts to tell them honestly.

And if none of that makes sense to you well, give it time. It will. Or it won’t. Either way, the ride gets wilder. And that, my friend, is the only kind of aging that matters.