In every restless night, in all midnights and afternights alone in my room, I decide to step up, grab my raincoat and walk away my home, taking a ride to the sin valley.
A fragrant glowing and humid valley full of vices, I’ve come here before, in fact it has been regular. I’ve been standing by walking by and using my feet and my will for the evidence of my disgusting system of electrons and hormones.
I walk by one stand I think I know, one that I have gone before and has worked. I walk to the man. And I ask for the stock. It’s always free. And he gives me this doses each of similar shapes and colours, repeating each other so much you can barely tell they are not created by the same. I scram them from the sticky bag and they are filled and covered by oozes and slimes disgusting and wet. And I stick them to my vein and inject them deeply. Waiting for the liquid to resonate with my body and to expand as waves. Temperature rises, skin sweats, my hand feels tired, my head feels relaxed. I try the next dose. And I try the next dose, and I try the next dose. And if I run out I can just ask the dealer more, I’m am at sin valley nonetheless.
But it doesn’t strike again. The next dose is too oozy, too dirty, too slimey. And I hate it. It doesn’t feel like the adverts and fantasies claim. I’m disgusted at my own hands filled and covered from dense coloured and pitched slime.
I know well I don’t want this, I don’t like sin valley. And I don’t like to recur to the drugs of women, whatever their reason is to offer their weaponised and monetised flesh. I know that I don’t crave any of this but a hug, a platonic. Deeply warming hug. From a someone who hugs tight on the bed next to me. That holds me so dearly that the existence of sin valley and its wet alleys and stands ceases from the cortex of my mind.
I’m running low on options. The nights are powering.