Drug addiction killed the writer.
Long before longhand became slow talk from a slack jaw, I was closing my eyes, not knowing whether or not I was tired or nodding.

Insufflating, incomprehensible snorting, the sound a nose makes when one is in disgust. As ugly as this euphoria is, I can't stop. Or I won't stop. That is why this writer is dead.

How many times can you wake up from an intentional overdose? More than three-hundred and sixty-five. **** it, because one day becomes one year becomes one lost person that is not only insufferable, but also a person that is no longer provocative, no longer privy to a responsible privacy that every man deserves.

So, as a man loses his privacy, that which we all seek, he can only close his eyes, because of drugs or not, and hope and pray that this is the night that he reaches eternal sleep.