I don't normally do things like this, but I feel like I should, you know. I want to remember how I felt on this day. The day of Angel's funeral. She was my lover, my best friend (don't tell Maureen I said that), and so much more. She cared for me when she didn't even know who the hell I was. For all she knew, I could've been some dead beat punk who was gonna beat the shit out of her, and that all those sounds of pain were fake. She trusted me. Trusted that I wasn't just gonna hurt her. She took me into her home and fixed me up. She bought me a new coat, I didn't want her to, but she did. She gave Roger and Mark money, and somehow got Roger out of the fucking loft. She was such a sweetheart, who didn't put up with shit. But the disease we shared, AIDS, it took her from me. I told her that I would cover her, that I would be there for her, but I couldn't stop that fucking disease from taking her from me, and Mimi, and Maureen, and Roger, and Mark, and Joanne. I knew it was gonna happen though, I got my hopes up. I thought that maybe we could've spent a few years together. I didn't know we would only have the time we did. It was the best time of my life though. She made me so happy, I didn't need weed to get me high. She was my high. But now that she's gone, I'm lost. I guess that you can only rent love.
Tom Collins, anarchist.
Collins put the paper into a notebook and lit the first joint he'd smoked since meeting Angel.