Memory.

When we walked into the apartment there were faces everywhere, plastered against walls, smoking weed on couches, touching your arm, infiltrating bathrooms, inundated with drink. You became manic and we walked out into the rain to get drugs and to be away from the faces of people you didn't want to see. We walked through muddy construction sights and across fields. I waited outside in a piss-coloured foyer while you met your dealer. He was a thin, tall man wearing huge black pants with unfortunate facial hair. We bought lemons at the grocery store and ate slices with salt, spitting the seeds on the ground. We took refuge in a warm room full of books and good records and you snorted as much powder as you could find, crushing random pills on dictionaries. We listened to Captain Beefheart and you acted out Waiting for Godot, wearing cups and books as hats and eating whole carrots. You performed an I Ching ceremony and we all sat in a circle and thought secret thoughts and you lit a match and let it burn and arranged the sticks and found answers. We walked back to the hostile place with the faces. You started talking about the meaninglessness of all existence. I tried to explain why nihlism is a false philosophical position. I wanted to throw one of your guitars off the balcony and watch it shatter 20 floors down. I imagined what would happen if the guitar hit someone and their head cracked open. I remember standing wet in the rain in the middle of a muddy field, watching you laugh meters away, my shoes filling with water.