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It’s not the need that I find bewitching,
anyone can be a junkie. It’s when
the need no longer works. Upon rising,
finding that one needs to feed yet again.
Finding that the need has not abated.
That the old shit just doesn’t work today.
That is panic. Everything you snorted,
consumed, and (the Devil will have her say)
infested, but all for naught. That is work.
That is irony. Of course the fallen
appear pleasing when we tell our story,
we are clueless. We’ve don’t know that berserk
rage when it fails. Talk about damnation:
stuck at romanticizing the junkie.