Words come back. Floating upwards, they crystallize as you ascend to the painful surface that is sobriety. Solidifying in your head, form into sentences, memories solidify into phrases. Perhaps they are the reside of the opiates - as they break down into harmless salts and are excreted, they leave behind something, a tiniest trace, a homeopathic residue of text on the brain's endorphin gland.

"Get a haircut .You've got your mum's hair." said S yesterday. And she was right. I step from the shower.

Age has jowelled me. And avoiding a haircut has softened my head into the shape of my mothers. I try to wonder who I see in that mirror, if it is me or her, or if I see anyone at all, really.

Lovecraft states that we only comprehend the world through the few senses we have and never see the true absolute reality around us.

Caught midwich cuckooed between stoned and sober I am never further from my senses. Never further from relying on them, trusting them. At this point they serve but one purpose, that is to drive me back to the depths of stonedness. Touch turns to twitch, smell lingers on stench, sight focusses on the negative, the sad.

To get through the day is to deny sensual input. Valium would have helped that past, as Lou may have said, but it always seems an act to me of the dog chasing his tail, or trying to see the floaty things on your eyes. When you oculate to focus on them they move to.

There is no denying the input for a time. Just suffer, as a buddhist Nike should advertise.

I eat chocolates as others eat fruits and nuts. Sugar provides a momentary lift followed by a longer drop. But any lift is worth ten times the drop at this point.

The parent too embarrassed to claim their abandoned child's body from the morgue, an image flicks feet first from mind's morgue drawer.

I go outside to the sun to banish such thoughts,