The drink performs where musicians could never. The same elixir that cures my apathy is what causes my body to wretch for days in agony. I can feel the stench of death as this encroaching miasma encircles me in my tomb. Hurricane winds have swept across this prison cell of a bedroom. The same room I've occupied for decades feels so foreign to me. The same skin that I've caressed and washed is no longer my own. This flesh is not my own. Days and nights pass me by like unwilling visitors, often I find myself forgetting my own name, or if it ever was my own to begin with?