Heroin, be the death of me. It’s my life and it’s my wife. Cause when the smack begins to flow…I don’t care anymore (sic) about all the jim jims in this town, and all the politicians making crazy sounds (sic)…I feel like Lou Reed must’ve felt (“…and I feel just like Jesus’ son…”). Everything is the same – but it’s just not quite as important. There is warmth, physically and emotionally. The pain that is always there is now on the other side of bullet proof glass…I can see it and hear its muffled sounds but it doesn’t hurt me. I feel love for everyone else…for mankind. Life is interesting but safe. Nothing really matters except this moment…and it may not be perfect but it’s imperfect in the most perfect way. The claws of the future are blunt – they can’t touch me. My mind is a pond or a very slowly flowing brook. There are satisfied fish under its surface. Slick, slippery, wet and secret. My thoughts are like relaxed sex without the need for orgasm: perfectly pleasureable just as they are. I could stay awake forever but slumber at the same time. I could sleep forever with my mind vivid and awake. There are no beginnings or ends, just flow.


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An outsider in late thirties working a job he doesn't like much and married to a wife he often hates. A good enough father. Used to have money but doesn't now. Has frequent fantasies (sexual or otherwise). Dislikes the masses and mainstream opinions/personalities.

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