There was a time when nobody dared fix in plain sight. Not unless they were so desperate for a hit that they stopped giving a fuck. It happened, but it was a rare sight.
This seems different. My man is out there several times a week, always middle of the day. He hits those long shots, drawing in and out of what appears to be still healthy veins. There’s often blood in a slow, long stream down his arm. He’s in no rush.
It’s like he wants to be seen. Some perverse performance art piece. I don’t know. I’ve seen some shit in my time, but something feels different about this one.
Dope is a strange business.