How many more are there in the world like you? Broken body and mind, derelict, vagabond. I stare into your face, your face, done up every morning by a  mortician, with pale greens and bright red lipstick, you look rather like a clown in this light, I even start to imagine you with a red nose and big floppy shoes, happy, smiling, like before you were broken. Yes, I wonder about the trials you have faced, how many times when things were just to hard that you turned to the bottle, to the needle, now facing down a possible amputation, what do you do? The same things you do everyday. Routine, I think, is what has kept you alive up till now, but I don’t think it will save you when your left gasping in the night, reaching out in the darkness for someone and finding only the bottle, the needle. It’s a self fulfilling prophecy, one more dead junkie.


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