I imagine him someplace urban, deserted, an abandoned warehouse or vacant office building.  He sits on a dirty pallet, puts a rock in the glass pipe, lights it, inhales and holds.  In the old chipped disc-man there is a CD labeled in black sharpie.  He sets it spinning and this song comes over the headphones, a song he made when he still had a hold on himself.  He leans back and exhales.  The smoke drifts upwards, expanding, fading.

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