Work Text:
Comfrey’s latest roundup casts a stern
shadow across your high. Curled in the bathtub, waiting for the poison to leach
through your nerves, never fast enough. You need to bury your nose in another mound —
of coke, of pussy, of tweets — of anything to blunt the razor’s edge. To binge,
to purge. To soar, to crash. Speeding down the byway, always on the run from ennui.
