The poorest man's drug. it was delivered in tiny packages, which when unwrapped unfolded into dioramas of angst and hope and funny little cinematic scenes. The ones which did not put me at the center of the action were perhaps better than the ones where I performed tasks which were clearly the inventions of the cruel side of my own mind. In the end we managed to escape. The car was a scratched up lincoln with the sky falling in the back and the trunk not quite closing. A lot of smoke came out of that exhaust. It was the life giving smoke though. Nothing poisonous, I promise. We managed to escape. Down the hill, on that very winding road through the forest. Still barely holding on in the back seat I checked if the camera had been loaded. I had recorded some of the events. Hopefully the good ones. Hopefully the ones that would help me reassemble some of the better stories. I woke up an hour before the alarm. I was still in the dead centre of the bed, still wedged between the pillows I had arranged around my head to block out any possible outside disturbances. A squirrel attack would have probably gone unnoticed. The closet in the bedroom had a colder feel to it than a freezer. My shirts arranged like the bloodless blue skins of the day version of me. The radio was awake and happy to ask me for money. Today will be a tough one again. It is going to be worth it. At the end of the day I will take the F into the heart of Brooklyn and there will be a new chapter of escapes in scratched up American machines, animals flying through the air, or not, a floor that wants to give some advice about wood and air and breathing in general. And there will be new tiny packages of sleep. Wrapped up incredibly well, protected from shocks and stabs and throws. Sleep is the poorest man's drug. What a gift. What a gift.