The Magic Pocket.

As the Fog begins to clear, my obsession decreases. For the hard labour makes jolly thuoghts tremble and I find myself bleak in comparison. We have been enjoying the bong for days and my lighters has turned dry. The consumation of drugs has turned my brain grey and soggy. But I enjoy the afternoon, it is filled with laughter and love. After a day as a paid slave it is nice to gather around the mau and relax, play pool and smile. The fog puts me into the magic pocket where everything is possible, but as the smoke gets thinner I lose my narcicism and my feelings of being something mor than myself. The pain of losing dear old friends manifests itself, deep inside the thick and dreamy smoke. The fog of pleasure and pain has showed me it's real face, but there is no break on the train where I'm going...