The dream wasn’t real. Was it?

It was just some new downer with a fun name, right? One of those “research” chemicals the DEA hasn’t gotten around to outlawing.

I want more. I need more. Worse, worse than the first time I tried cocaine. (Bought a gram. Blew through it in an hour or two. Fat eighties rails. Heh.)

Freebase. Caught the dragon. Slept for days.

The gardens, o fuck, the gardens were joy incarnate. Most of ‘em anyways.

Some were so sad but so beautiful. Fucking flowers spelled out a tragedy Shakespeare couldn’t have comprehended.

I mean, goddamn, I just don’t have the words.

And that cave, where the wind whispers Hypnos…

The waking world is all pain. Tight muscles. Desperate thirst. Twisting hunger.

I’m not sure I’d survive another dream like that.

I’m not sure I care.

- found written in an otherwise blank notebook at the saddest estate sale imaginable