There's no deodorant for desperation.

In my family, misery didn't just love company, it wanted hostages.

Heroin spread that soft blanket over everything. But once the blanket was ripped off, it took a layer of skin with it, leaving nothing but nerve ends screaming in the breeze.

Junkies are liars. They have to be professionally.

How do you write when you're not miserable? The solution, of course, is to make yourself miserable about not writing.

You can't really compare hells. But I suppose the hell of being strung out on another person's addictive behavior is its own special thing.

A waft of sweet hash drifted by, and I wanted to float after it like Wimpy levitating at the scent of a hamburger.