Benadryl nightmares, my cellphone rings. Bugs on my wall, chemicals in my veins. They don’t treat me with respect, and I just fucking can’t defend myself.

Don’t hate the player, hate the game - but there is no game, just an awful bunch of losers treating me like shit and then calling it a game.

I’m floating in space. I’m alien to this society. Faith has given up on me, but I don’t care. Any monk will sleep well on a few grams of xans.

It’s with the first stretch of my mitochondria after a several-year-long hibernation that the cold visions start to melt, and all the tears I cried gather around a campfire with my friends. Panic attacks in mental sandcastles, swept away by the softest wave of my failing body.

Haven’t showered in weeks, haven’t been in a car in months, haven’t been in the forest in years. That’s why I close my eyes and wait.

I’m already preparing for rehab to quit all the addictions society pushed me into by not giving a shit. I wish I could invent things, be funny, be sad, just create a mask or whatever - but there is no point. There’s no horror I could imagine being worse than this.

I remember being in New York with my best friend. I miss him. I miss smoking joints and having a goof. I miss being tiny in a big world. I miss believing in stupid shit, like that people help you when you’re dying, for example.