I’d known The Boy about six years before I realised he had feelings. Until then, I’d assumed he was like a dead tree – enigmatic and interesting to look at but essentially hollow and lifeless. The Boy only made sense on drugs – taken by himself and his audience – but in that narrow alleyway of lucidity there was a path to reaching him. Like those on the fringes of death who witness the long path to the bright light, if you were willing to get as fucked up as he could and did, you’d find windows where he made sense.
I remember lying on the floor, smashing my teeth on a brick, convinced it was a stale piece of bread, and seeing him standing above me, upright, without the usual hunching of the shoulders. His voice clear and concise, not broken and wavering. I crawled in the general direction…
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