The first time I understood the mechanics of addiction was when I was given morphine (under medical supervision) about three years ago. Pain [of my broken and dislocated arm] subsided and I was blissed out other than them taking my blood pressure every thirty minutes. I was on cloud nine. The Angel kept calling the hospital ward throughout the night to find out how I was. Apparently the nurse on duty kept telling him: Your mother is fine.
And I was [fine]. Frightening when you let yourself think about it.
This minute and for the last fortnight I feel so crap I wish there were a remedy. Anything. Last night I couldn’t sleep so I watched a Philip Seymour Hoffman film. He does pain so well. Before your condolences flood in. Don’t. He is dead and I never get ill. But do lose my voice usually in January or February. Every year. Amicably accompanied by a fever. Oh do I wish for my mother’s cool hand on my forehead. The upside being that I can’t say much. The platform is yours.