Sunsets....

The wind hums a familiar tune into my once again shattered ears. Sitting on the beach listening to the ocean didn't help my sickness like I was told it might. Now i'm just dope-sick with sand in the crack of my ass. The sunset hurt, the sound of the seagulls over my head hurt, everything hurt, and now I can't get up off the dune because my joints have hardened into the position i'd been crouched into for the past hour or so. The wind extinguished my half smoked cigarette, and I was just too fucking ill to reach into my pocket for the last match. My teeth felt like they had been upholstered, and my tongue as dry as a cats litter box. Venice was still pretty gnarley back then, and the only hustle I had left, was hoping to find a loaded rig buried in the sand. I started raking through the tiny shells with my fingers, hoping to dig up a forgotten or dropped rig. I would ask people walking by holding hands in the romantic sunset if they had any heroin. The shame of where I had ended up at 25 years of age washed up onto my face like the dead Jellyfish at my feet. There was no way I was going to be able to crawl back to the twins apartment on the speedway, but it was the only safe place I had left, and there was no heroin there. The pain in my bones was going to last forever, I just knew it.