Morphine
Abstract
My eyes turned feral, made visitors feel hunted. When I talked, interlocutors thought of machine-gun turrets, wolf-children, and town drunks. I sold grand schemes to myself, Mad Morphine Dauphin. I became characters in stories my mind told my mind. I softly ceased to exist. The stench of the hospital, my tube-invaded body. Cubist quarrels with nurses—none of this had to do with old what's-my-name. Morphine slew ego. I was a parsonage without a parson, a jukebox mausoleum. Later I...