I spend the morning thinking. Shall I go to church tomorrow? Or shall I be cast into a dark, cold park pursing my shivering lips around cigarette ends, tasting the taste of plant fumes which slowly descend in clouds from my mouth, dispersing and reversing into the air of my mind. Fogging my thoughts So that I laugh in the face of absurdity, but am secretly struck in the heart and my wisdom plucked away. Someone ties a blindfold around my optimism. This is the world, can you see better now? No. I'm scared. What have my friends made of me, made of themselves? What are we doing with these tools of turning wheels and glass pipes which illuminate in the hovering moonlight cast from above, casting shadows on our faces, as we forget friendship and love drugs? Only drugs. No I can't come out tonight because I want to sleep well. I don't want the twitches and the paranoid itches. I don't want the voices and suffocating choices and that feeling of feeling too much and feeling too well.