I think I'm just drawn to heroin. Whether it's in its own pure form or flowing through someone else's veins; it calls to me. I fill myself up with junkies; I draw them close, suck them dry and spit them back out. Gulping mouthfuls of black tar blood I come up for air. It's the track marks, it's the opiates, it's the complete and utter apathy. Heroin is blissful ennui; contented satiety. It is love in powder form. It was the drug I always wanted cocaine to be. It was all the emotion I always wanted to feel and now it's gone so I cling to the essence of it that still flows through him. I'll lick the blood from his track marks and needle pricks, kiss the healing veins – anything to be close to the remnants that still lurk inside him.