glorified w

Last Saturday night, my first toke in months, man. And how my head buzzed and danced and floated and swirled with the experience. Suddenly, Kerouac's Dr. Sax started to read like Hemingway. Maybe I should read Burroughs' Naked Lunch again.

I remember the darkness, the cottage, the mixed aroma of wet grass and animal dung, the invisible insects singing their glorious nocturnal hymn around me, the sound magnified a thousand fold. I remember Grace and her husband and some anonymous dude all talking at the same time - "What a great night this is, eh?", "Yes, indeed. Love and sex have no match . . . ", "Whattafuck! What is wrong with my face?", "Ey, dude, you're stepping on my toe!" - and the whole world collapsing before my eyes . . . or was it all in my head? All the sounds of the world invading my head . . .

Sorry, sorry, sorry . . . but then again, for what?