Drugs are the lubricant to the metaphorical shards of the mirror that makes up my mind. How smooth the glass feels oiled up, but my are they still sharp. But it's too much, I'm doing too much, so I'm not doing enough. If I do enough drugs maybe I can bury my mind with them. My sanity is slipping, but I'm not sure of the direction. I have to choose. I'm not living.