It's been a year since I've yelled at paper. Moving on from a tree that weeps and false hope in the sidewalk, I've been promoted to cigarette smoke and dust on the walls.
Asthma has come back from vacation and is here to stay. Being woken up from lack of breath isn't my favorite "good morning".
My bloodstream tells no tale of my addictions. I don't count how long I've been sober, if you give it a number it'll bring it back to life, and who wants to beat a dead horse over and over. Besides, it feels good to **** clean.