Halloween night on the front porch, a Heineken, listening to Dirty Three, clouds zipping past on the horizon, watching what may or may not be hand-to-hand transactions on the street, I wonder if the people that sell these drugs know that the people that use them often have children. And that when they use them, they are entirely absent, in so many ways, from the young lives that need them so very much. And do they understand that, behind the mask that things are ok during these encounters, they are not?
And somewhere in a den of despair, after a brisk walk, while the children sleep, and an orange rising moon, half-torso tattered, alternates between clouds, bricks bathed in it and flourescent light, a pipe burns, orange too. And then dark.