6 days. My new record. What’s yours? Used to be three— a little less than a year ago. How long have you been up and wired? When did sleep become an afterthought? Tell me. I’m dying to know your number. Do you know what the aftermath looks like? I do. At least the very beginning. Long after you stop, your eyes still remember how fun you made the pain. Your mind grows psychotic —or at most: tri-visions. trembling hands. attention span turned murder scene and mood swings in bloody silence Let the Getty in my voice glide you, let the raw metals swimming in the back of your throat feel like braille does to those who can’t hear. And if I fall one day and don’t get up— I hope it’s hard.