In those days he would sing to himself, when he woke in blind withdrawal, something stronger than hunger gnawing at his ribs, a fist of TV static in his brain. He sang to know his status. To know when he needed water, and when he, needed, water. If he needed it, he would not drink it. If he, needed, water, he crawled for it, and there were days bad enough to drink from the toilet like a dog, in these roach hotels where if he was lucky the toilet had been scoured with bleach. He sang to know when he was fading bad, congested sin dead palate, or when the hit was coming up, voice brightening, or maybe it didn't change at all, but the drug told him, you are beautiful, everything is beautiful.

Be my
lucky card
I’ll do
  anything anything
to keep you
from harm...

He doesn’t know why the song had to be so sad. Some old singer, voice rising and failing in the same swell. And now the sadness is in him but that’s why the song came, after forgetting it all these years. It came when he made a hole for it.