A Drug User
A door opened slowly, and in came a man with a substance that makes one think of snow. His forehead began to bead with sweat as he became more intolerant. He paid the dealer, and just as fast as the man pierced through the doorway he had gone astray. Only one thing concerned him now; he must get his fix. He would feel the heroin not just after he injected himself with it, but before he would feel the pain of anticipation, the prick of the needle, and the torture of the ride down a road that he had been down too many times.
As he held the magical bag of sands in his quaking hands, he thumped his only friends and saw them settle into a corner; he prepared himself for a euphoric rollercoaster. All around him were half melted candles and the corpses of scorched Prometheus clones. He sought the half melted candle with the longest wick and found a rather dull candle that was about to be a lamp unto his feet. Its luminary guided him on an ever changing trek. In the fullness of time, the silver spoon graced his palm and he looked into its soulless eye. He deposited his white friends in that spoon and subjected them to the infernal heat of man’s oldest friend and worst enemy. While he should have been nervous, seeing his friends exposed to the dancing beauty only heightened his anticipation and made his veins course with throbbing life. Thus, the unrelentingly passionate cycle began with this ritual only to end in an anticlimactic orgasm.
Furthermore he beheld the burning understanding of the precious substance that would cradle and love him from the inside out. As the tip of the needle drank voraciously at the clear brown drought, thoughts went through his mind of perhaps quitting, starting over, abstaining, but the singing pops of his hero in that spoon beckoned him to be a part of this party. Seeing the liquid pleasure being accepted so readily by the syringe made him think of his own acceptance, or maybe a lack thereof. He began to question his lot...