I hear them, their mixed mumble, the occasional soft giggle loosed over the same conversations we've tried to have. Only this time, I'm not invited. I could be jealous, but I'm not. I imagine you sitting in the same taupe backed chair from the same collection which dots offices all across campus. Your Maryjane's slightly scuffed as you dig their noses into the thin carpet. Quite the collector, the various display of spines wrapped in leather hides, taxidermied, looking as if they'll sleep forever. Cracking one, the two of you share its marrow.
Like heroin, it floods your veins and your eyes go wide, but I know what's to come. Tonight you'll beg me. Beg me to dip into my own stash to rid you of your shakes. You want the good stuff, I know. I tell you it'll fuck with your head. We start with Ginsberg, WCW, Rich...some real caustic shit. The needle, greasy, changes hands for hours. It really is addictive. This is what they don't show in movies or on TV. This is what people abandon their lives for. Ragged clothes and a penniless existence are a pittance for this level of high. The clock burns in the corner, six a.m hums opposite the shade. Yet we lay, huddled and shivering through listless REM, waiting for our next fix.
What I might encourage here is to try and get outside the head of this persona. Seems to me that this draft seems located in the thoughts of a speaker, rather than observable phenomena outside the head. It's a common enough dynamic, but I'd like to see you step outside. Perhaps have this character--rather than talk about thoughts--describe his surroundings. Here's the challenge: have him describe his surroundings, all the while thinking all this above. You can't talk about those thoughts, though. You keep them silent and you let his description of his surroundings tell his emotions.
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