Woke at 3 a.m., surfacing from the haze of a long, meandering bender—microdosing on ████, self-experimentation in the spirit of inner cartography.
I stepped onto the balcony, cigarette in hand. The city slept, indifferent. It struck me, then: there is nothing holding me back. So I ran.
Ran to the park—past shuttered storefronts and flickering street lamps. The run was madness. A kind of liberation in motion. When I reached the park, I collapsed onto a bench, heart pounding, lungs ablaze.
Lit another cigarette. The ritual continues.
A scrappy little street dog approached—some mix of charm and grit. Probably hungry. I had no food, just calloused palms and affection. Gave him what I could. He stayed a while.
Finished the smoke. Stretched under the half-lit sky. Dropped for five burpees like I was shaking something off. Walked home through silent streets.
On the way, did pull-ups on a rusted monkey bar. Hung there for a minute. A child’s game turned existential grip test. I imagined tetanus creeping through the cracks in my skin. Filed the thought under “unverified threats.”
Back home. Cold shower, second cigarette on the balcony. Watching the sky shift from black to bruised blue.
Then—back to the abyss. The day begins.
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