A gift for his sister, I sold my first book to my dealer and had him put it on tick. Every artist starves in their own way. I don’t eat much as it is, so I may as well feed the beast. Well, the urges at least. Creativity’s not some raging monster quelled by contraband, nor are narcotics a siren song shorthand for the muse’s work. Anyway, my inspirations are as vaporous as their progeny and so far cost me less than the pursuit of my dreams. I’ll see if I can sell the next one to my psychiatrist.
I keep trying to talk to my dealer about getting my life back on track. It’s the wrong avenue, I know that, but he’s such a good guy I have trouble believing I’m part of his self interest. Still, you can’t keep giving somebody money and expect them to convince you to stop, guy’s got his own habits to attend. I furnish his like he furnishes mine and we both go around the symbiotic circle, I can’t just get off and expect the ecosystem to stay balanced. Maybe I could pay him for the truth, another service in demand.