The golden light streamed into the room, filtered only by the curtains, it dyed every surface of the man's flat. He put down his violin when he saw the sheet he had been playing from become gilded in colour. In one fell swoop the figure crossed the room and stood at the windows. The light of London, his lover, hit his face and caressed it like a mother to her child. The city whispered to him, beseeching him to end his path of self destruction.
He jerked the curtains closed.
The man was not a poet; he believed more in the term "science" than in the phrase "art".
He dreamed of letting himself rest. Releasing himself from the shackles of his drug of choice.
It used to be love. Now it was cocaine.
He grabbed the syringe, free from one of the city's many needle drives. He didn't give a damn about who saw him anymore. They let him fall. He let him fall.
He retreated to the upstairs bedroom, bringing his dose and a scarf as a tourniquet. He dropped down on the mattress and after a clumsy arm tie, fed his body his sin. In the quiet before the storm he reached for the frumpy sweater stashed in the corner. He held onto it as the east wind blew.
