Article voiceover
my mother’s birthday is my pin for everything. we haven’t spoken in three years. maybe more. who knows? I don’t. I remember telling her why I got into heroin. she said something like, “Connah, I don’t wanna hear that shit.” I remember telling her I was depressed. she said something like, “Why? Ya got nothin ta be depressed about…” I remember handcuffs, insomnia sunrises, her asking me to do tha fuckin laundry, shattered dishes, relapses, fractured smiles, visiting her at work on Mission Hill, she’d slip me a few twenties, I’d say something like, “Nah, c’mon Ma. I just wanted to see ya,” but she always knew I was full of shit.
Written on the floor of the World Trade Center at 1:37 a.m.
VILE SELF-PORTRAITS is imminent.