Oh my god I didn’t make it, I
didn’t even come close, my breath is battered with beer, my mind is toast. I had
two seconds on the wagon now I’m dragging behind, my flesh feels so warm but
the rocks I’m pulled over shred my mind. No one else to blame, dancing with my
own shame and all I can claim is that I need help. When your hands slip off the
wheel and you crash they call it an accident but I look to my right and that
one beer I was going to have had babies and maybe as June Fairchild dies of
liver cancer I have the true answer to the prediction of all addiction. Hey
Jack Kerouac is it a fact that your tour of Big Sur cannot procure anything but
the final cure of death by addiction? But can I stop, surrounded by crops of
thorns on the long stems of roses. The buds bloom so far above my head as I run
through the fields and find the deception yields nothing but cuts over every
inch of my flesh. Can I survive the cuts without being saved by zero or play
the hero without entering the bed of roses prepared to bleed for all who feed
as I disassociate my mind from the wounds they are going to find?
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