Dear Anonymous,
Its cold. He is up earlier than usual because of the time change and didn't realize it had changed. Almost no one out here this morning.
He talks about heroin addiction. His. Others. The 24/7 incessant drive to get more. And then it gets so bad that 'more' is only enough to keep you from being dope sick and stopping is not an option.
He shakes his head as we talk about folks we know out here struggling. Life without it feels unbearable. Undoable. Coming off of it, also unbearable. Staying on it? Deadly and unbearable.
This morning I can see the sun just lighting the horizon. That remarkable first light that somehow blends the opposites of the spectrum, that is blue and orange, into a perfectly unified palette.
He takes some socks. A coffee card. Some brownies I brought. And he walks down the road.