I wasn't, then I was. Before here I was taking downers, mostly. On account of not sleeping. [ Equally dispassionate: it all seems so trifling, so irrelevant, next to his continued ability to draw breath. The impossible, maddening thump of his heart. ]

I don't drink either. Not unless I'm liquoring up some fucking kingpin. [ A ghost of a sneer in his voice; his anger's snuck up on him. He pauses. ] When I fall off the wagon I fall hard, but it's easier. Out here, living like this. You know, the stakes are staring you in the face.

[ Another pause. ] Think I know where I'm at.

[ And via poem code, WHICH I WILL FIGURE OUT LATER BECAUSE THIS WEEKEND WAS CRAZY (or byop!), he sends: ] t r e n c h