....

Dignity walked into my Despair Bar, where I sat propped up unsteadily and slapped my face. Hard. Dignity pointed out in threatening gestures and flashes of my life projected on the barren wall behind my head, the trail of rejections I had greedily sought out. The Fetish Attachment's I attributed to tall and skinny men with bitter mouths and swollen cocks. Of what use thereby, my mangled days and upset nights, fervently mollifying, fussing about with the dustpan and broom, washing the same dish over and over, pecking away at a heroin filled door that would open just once in a great while to permeate my soul with that little bit of Him that perfected the addiction. And so I sat with this, watching myself, looking like a cheap whore in moving pictures until the walls began to tremble and with the shake of my matted mane, I did rain down from the sky a flash of brilliance to explode the dark and sticky barroom in shards and I went a'running out, to feel the sunshine on my skin. Alone.