Out there is getting darker, grayer by the moment. A sprinkle of rain is falling now. It’s chilly out there. But in here, it’s warm, exacerbated by the glow of yellow light above me. Before me is the manuscript. Beside me is a single white pill. Both affect me differently, but haunt me just the same. Chevelle’s bass line strums my synapses into anticipated euphoria.
This is the moment that makes whatever I do worthwhile. Whether I begin striking keys into forming words and paragraphs or sitting stoned in front of racing images on the muted television, it’s all the same. It flies by quickly, and I wonder during each and every second of it, “How long will it last this time?”
Doesn't matter. I keep writing. Later, I'll be drinking, and I'll have other questions that need answers.