Empty coke bottle, syringe wrappers blowing in the wind.

I sit and watch as junkies stagger past, either stoned or hanging out; morphine stare or desperate for it.

I live in a daze as people die around me; fast or slow, I’m not sure which is worse. Nadia vomits raspberry soft-drink in a bilious puddle, pale and drawn out of her mind. Shane struts; he’s off the gear right now, but only for a while. Money talks and bullshit walks.

I hear the furious call of an ambulance, racing to help people who don’t want to help themselves. I remember watching a body tumble from the sky, twirling in the wind like a screaming kite, hitting the ground like a dying swan, limp and rigid at the same time. Burst open for the entire world to see.

I wonder if any of it is worth living, worth dying for.

I sit and feel the same as I always do. I want to score, I need to score, and I want to score again.

Life as a junkie is life in a circle; stoned, not, stoned, not; locked up, not, locked up, not.

Aren’t we always locked up, locked in?

Locked in the cycle, locked in the desire, locked in the need.

I feel locked in, locked up, locked out…