He sits in the semi-darkness, rubber tubing around his left arm, tightly wound, veins popping, scarred, tough, sore.

He stares at his fix, inside a glass eyedropper, babies pacifier on top for more push, blunt 23 gauge needle at the ready, he stares again, swearing the needle licked its chops, ready to puncture an already over used vein.

Slowly he pushes the dull spike through the hard as leather skin that covers his tube of life's blood.

Blood rushes into the eyedropper, yes! a fast hit, slowly he jacks the fluid into his vein, a rush encompasses his body, pain recedes to be replaced by SHEER pleasure, he boots in and out, the droppers slowly filling with more blood, thickening, clots form yet he does not stop, needle clogs, he flings the dregs of his fix onto the wall, he watches as the clots slowly drip down the wall. blood drips down his arm in rivulets, onto the carpet, he cares not and makes no move to stop the flow.

He is already thinking about the next fix, swearing to get a new needle, but he knows all he will do is run a thin wire through it to clean the hardened blood, sharpen it as well as he can on the striking part of a matchbook.

For the moment he is at peace, knowing this will pass quickly as the drive for MORE will soon return.

He cleans the blood off his arm, he sits back and lights a smoke, momentarily a feeling of well being allows his to think, thoughts of death.