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.