My friend, who was a heroin
addict,
is dead and buried beneath
trash
and broken bottles in a
prison field.
He died, of course, because
of the way
he lived. It wasn’t a very
good way,
but it kept him alive. When
it couldn’t
keep him alive any longer, it
killed him.
Thoroughly and with great
suffering.
After he had made certain
choices,
there were no others
available. That’s
the way it is with certain
choices,
and we are faced with them so
young.
I have few friends, and none
of them
are replaceable. That’s the
way it is
with friends. We make certain
choices.