I dreamt about our dealer last night. He's a South African psychobilly, displaced into this bleak midlands town after a series of bad decisions. He came over and did a shot with me earlier and I watched him rolling up his jeans to shoot into the scartissue in his leg. When he was done he brushed the blood off and sucked it from his hand as part of his ritual and happened to catch my eye. I watched his eyes shrink to dots and softness blur his face, that beautiful unfocussing. All the romance of heroin there.
I want to write more about romance.
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