August 19, 2005
Where Wolf Has Come-to
I smoke all the time now. [“all the time” in this context is not a colloquial way of conveying ‘frequently.’ It is meant literally. A pipe is never not in my hand or hot in my pocket. I sometimes type with it between my fingers. A lighter between the fingers of my other.
Used to be that once embarked upon a jag, I wouldn’t eat. Didn’t want to, couldn’t, except maybe one of those tiny 25 cent bags of chips on the fourth or fifth day or something. Now, when I get around to eating—and it’s still too little too late—I have to smoke up before to enable myself. To make the whole process tolerable.
I wake—on the rare occasion that my body, unable to take any more, collapsed into late sleep—and immediately reach for that glass. It rubs the sleep from my eyes for me. But it doesn’t work as well as it used to. It’s getting old. I cough. My chest hurts.
Posted by peligrito at August 19, 2005 10:29 AM
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