the alley smelled like **** and failure,
the way it always does.
there was a guy slumped against the wall,
his face pale,
his arms full of track marks.

i lit a cigarette,
offered him one,
but he shook his head.
“trying to quit,” he said.
i almost laughed,
but didn’t.

he looked at me,
his eyes hollow as an old shoe,
and said,
“you think it’s worse to die slow
or fast?”

i didn’t answer.
he smiled anyway,
and said,
“doesn’t matter.
either way,
they still call it living.”