I wrote this at work today...
***
Sitting on the couch in the living room gives me a perfect view of my surroundings. As I come down from the heroin, I try to take note of the things going on around me. I try, but only wish to shoot up again. Its truly a hell here in this den. This scum infested hole of a dwelling. As I cook another dose, I notice something for the first time. The walls are a disgusting brown. Its probably from the buildup of drugs, bodily fluids, smoke, and trash. I slam the needle home. The high grips me. I suddenly gain enlightenment. I understand why the house is like this. I understand the meaning of it all.
People are passed out in the doorways, making love on the couches, shooting up in the bathrooms, killing themselves in on the roof. Theyre trying to hit bottom, reach it so they the only way they can go is up. This is a great place to attempt a personal and absolute low. The house is a shit hole, pure and simple. The paint is peeling off the ceiling, falling to the floor, the tables, and the chairs. The walls are dented and brown from various illegal activities. The floor is so stained that you can hardly tell the original color if you could only survive getting close enough to look. The odor emanating from the carpet is sulfurous and metallic. Thats the smell of heated spoons, needles, knives, bullets.
The sounds and noises crying out through the structure would make even the sanest person crack. The low wail of a sobbing crack whore, the thumping bass-heavy techno, the moaning and groaning of sex, and the screams of bad trips create an atmosphere that causes an addict to use more to escape the hellish home of deviance. It makes the high worth the risk of death because it means getting out of the world for a few hours. The house gives dark inspiration to those who arent sure, to those who dont know what to expect, to the nameless souls without a place in life. Its almost as if the domicile itself is lending a hand in bringing a person down.
The air is hazy and filled with pollutants, all of which are probably deadly when inhaled. My gaze rises from the walls to the soft, unstable ceiling. Then a new sound makes its presence known. A gunshot rings out through the air. A gun falls to the floor above, followed by a body. The blood of the unfortunate suicide victim seeps through the carpet to the plywood underneath. The plywood gives way to drywall. Over the years of abuse, the drywall has been softened to a sponge-like state. The blood drools down the walls, adding to the sewer of crap that coats them. The walls really are a mess.
***
Sitting on the couch in the living room gives me a perfect view of my surroundings. As I come down from the heroin, I try to take note of the things going on around me. I try, but only wish to shoot up again. Its truly a hell here in this den. This scum infested hole of a dwelling. As I cook another dose, I notice something for the first time. The walls are a disgusting brown. Its probably from the buildup of drugs, bodily fluids, smoke, and trash. I slam the needle home. The high grips me. I suddenly gain enlightenment. I understand why the house is like this. I understand the meaning of it all.
People are passed out in the doorways, making love on the couches, shooting up in the bathrooms, killing themselves in on the roof. Theyre trying to hit bottom, reach it so they the only way they can go is up. This is a great place to attempt a personal and absolute low. The house is a shit hole, pure and simple. The paint is peeling off the ceiling, falling to the floor, the tables, and the chairs. The walls are dented and brown from various illegal activities. The floor is so stained that you can hardly tell the original color if you could only survive getting close enough to look. The odor emanating from the carpet is sulfurous and metallic. Thats the smell of heated spoons, needles, knives, bullets.
The sounds and noises crying out through the structure would make even the sanest person crack. The low wail of a sobbing crack whore, the thumping bass-heavy techno, the moaning and groaning of sex, and the screams of bad trips create an atmosphere that causes an addict to use more to escape the hellish home of deviance. It makes the high worth the risk of death because it means getting out of the world for a few hours. The house gives dark inspiration to those who arent sure, to those who dont know what to expect, to the nameless souls without a place in life. Its almost as if the domicile itself is lending a hand in bringing a person down.
The air is hazy and filled with pollutants, all of which are probably deadly when inhaled. My gaze rises from the walls to the soft, unstable ceiling. Then a new sound makes its presence known. A gunshot rings out through the air. A gun falls to the floor above, followed by a body. The blood of the unfortunate suicide victim seeps through the carpet to the plywood underneath. The plywood gives way to drywall. Over the years of abuse, the drywall has been softened to a sponge-like state. The blood drools down the walls, adding to the sewer of crap that coats them. The walls really are a mess.
"Some of it, yeah."