The older he got the more he realized that sobriety was a condition he was growing increasingly allergic to. He would have attacks. Pangs of panic as his face flushed red with an anxiety that was a distant as the stares of the world around him.
Fortunately the world was filled with elixirs. Potions brewed from herbs of every conceivable family. Run out of one, replace with another. Whole families existed to drag him from bed to work and back again. Erythroxylaceae in the morning, cannabinoids and ergoline throughout the day to keep him from himself, and an opioid or three to turn his 80 thread sheets into cascades of warm velvet.
He didn’t love the world. He loved himself. And it seemed to him that being able to see five minutes in front of him without having to force himself to smile– no matter what the cost– was a fine thing.