Barely any more is it fun to be floating mad in a cup, hissing and giggling and overtipping for cabs. Eating rich foods and smoking are also out, although each happens from time to time. Like sloppy makeouts in dive bars, they’re fun at the time, though.
Running, really. Running and cycling up big hills and burning the lungs up, panting almost to death, and getting there for half a sandwich and some chili. Dazed, drinking a glass of tea, hands shaking. It’s better than I remember real drugs being, and this is what there is.
Pounding down Virginia and getting tattoos and writing on my hand and waiting for my next gig. This is what there is.
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