But contemplating this just makes me more tired. I don't approve of drugs. I don't approve of death, clinical or spiritual.
Yet, this poverty is draining me. And I feel so old. The lonely, only, ugly nights-spent with faceless and nameless strangers in duffel coats, smoking cigarettes outside seedy nightclubs. No, I don't have a spare fag.
Regrets, I've had a few. But then again, too few to mention. And now I have fewer fags.
I'm sorry for being so tired. If things get better, I'll send you a postcard. I'll sign it off with love.
Morpheus? He came by earlier this evening, I wasn't at home. He left his card with a hastily scribbled note. I'm supposed to call him when I'm free.
Goodnight and goodluck.