chasing the dragon

in the deep green canopy of stanley park, south of lover’s walk, he sits on a moss-covered log, in front of the tattered green tent that forms his makeshift campsite. the golden moon sags from the blue velvet sky and a screaming stillness descends on this warm march nite. he licks the filter-end of his home-made heroine cigarette as he watches the orange sheaths of fire in momentary suspended animation. he belches, retasting a small mouthfull of partially digested roast mallard, and twirls the end of the cigarette over the flame tip. the wood spits and crackes and the flames dance and flicker wildly as he inhales from the cigarette in short, sharp bursts, then holds the smoke in his lungs. he counts silently to 15 then exhales, and gazes at the clear sheets of heat shimmeying from the flames, cloaked in thin ribbons of white smoke.

he feels a sudden chill as his small campfire intensifies into a ten-foot high flame. he sits like a stone as the chanting flames embrace him with an icey grip. long, smokey tendrils swirl around him, leaching through his pores like a vapour. a strangely arousing, warm sensation surges through his body ... electrifying ... he hungers for more. he gasps and heaves to catch his breath. his heart races like a high speed train. a hot, steamy lust brews within his groin ... throbbing ... a slimy, salty film of sweat coats his ruddy face now ... cuming ... he cries out breathlessly to the cavernous forest ... but ... instead of orgasmic relief, his groin throbs violently ... intense ... a crushing ache ... like ... a migraine in his groin. unrelenting pleasure becomes unrelenting pain. then ... nothing ... a dark, sleepy void. trapped ... no escape ... in a twilight. you know, the kind of twilight that renders you powerless to operate your own body?