Voice A: I love it this way... my feet against the tar, which is soft from the spring heat, the slight breeze that runs across your entire body, especially your crotch. You feel an incredible power being naked under a dome of stars while a giant city is dressed, dodging cars all around you five flights down.
Voice A: Sometimes I feel like something's chasing me, like there's some wacko on a roof somewhere who could snuff me out at any moment. And I feel this horrible fear. Will I have time to finish the poems breaking loose in my head?
Voice A: I looked at his body, and it was death for the first time. His face was thin and wrinkled, almost apelike. His hair, just gray patches on his scalp. He looked 60 years old, and he was 16.
Voice A: I went down to Pedro's basement. All sorts of characters were in the storage-room shooting gallery. I was just gonna sniff a bag, but a guy says, "If you're gonna sniff, might as well pop it, and if you're going to pop it, might as well mainline." I was scared of needles, but I gave in.
Voice A: First, it's a Saturday-night thing, and you feel cool, like a gangster or a rock star. It's just something to kill the boredom, you know? They call it a chippie, a small habit. It feels so good, you start doing it on Tuesdays, then Thursdays. Then it's got you.
Voice A: And you want to stop. You really do. But it's like a dream. You can't stop dreams. They move in crazy pieces, any way they want to, and suddenly... you're capable of anything.
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