I know about the more in morphine, what it's like to wake and feel like a chalk outline of yourself. I know about days passing so quickly that they don't even wave, let alone stop and say hello. I know it’s been one of those months, one of those lifetimes, when you dream of a laundromat, a place to unscrew your skull and toss your dirty thoughts into a machine, come back an hour later, your impulses all folded and clean. If I could, I'd have a scientist shrink me down and inject me into your bloodstream, and I'd go with a wash brush and suds bucket, scrub the opium out each one of your cells. I used to think I was tough because I could hold a machine gun of whisky to my cranium and take bullet after bullet to the brain. I used to think the greatest display of strength was lifting a hunk of metal in the air, but now I know it's far more difficult to put something down.
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