Yeah, my name’s Walter.
I’m waiting for a pourboire for my opuscule. Not anything major, mind you, but something to make me feel like putting up with this indecency of a life is worth it. I plink on this fiddle, you know.
I scavenge at the dumpster behind Subway and find the meager rations for life. I scavenge at the dumpster behind planned parenthood for protein. I scavenge everywhere for DMT and in the welter sometimes — for bloody heroin. It’s my life and its my wife.
I don’t believe in the goodness of people. You know? Nor am I the reason others believe in the goodness of people. True that!
My father left me, disappeared, when I was a boy. I didn’t hear from him for many years, and then I found out he never lived farther than 10 miles away from me.
My mother would choke me to unconsciousness and pinch me until she raised angry welts on my skin. And by the time I reached the age of five I’d been choked and dropped on my head so often my skull welted in. Here. Here, feel here.
I grew not to trust my parents, and by extension I trust no one else. What good is there in people other than fraud, mistreatment and abuse; and for some variety add murder, rape, and abandonment.
See here. In heroin I have a friend who numbs and swaddles me in the warmth and glow of forgetfulness… here life is unencumbered by human misery and failing… here no one fails me, and I fail no one.
“Let us work without reasoning,” said Martin; “it is the only way to make life endurable.”
— Voltaire / Candide