He looks down into the brown paper bag. He knows that this isn’t good for him. He needs it. He quivers if he strays from it. He starts to shake and become frantic- signs of withdrawal. A bead of sweat trickles down his forehead, the sun dipping into the horizon. His palms are sweaty from the anticipation. His frail body trembles as he breathes. His bones are prominent when he inhales; a result of his poor diet which consists of sugar water; it is all he can afford at times. Every time he tells himself “This is the last time I do this”. But as usual his cravings overpower his weak standards and he caves to his fixation. “F it, no one understands or cares about me anyway.” He opens the bag and puts the opening around his mouth. He draws in a deep breath. The rancid fumes of the glue pour into his lungs, and the effects are immediate. He becomes lightheaded and his pupils dilate. All his troubles and hardships obliterated. That is, until the drug wears off. Then he knows it’s time for another sniff. He hallucinates that someone is chasing him. He imagines gnomes and fixates on ants crawling along a beaten path. He sees a cartoon-like Winnie the Pooh soaring in front of him. He walks, but he cannot feel the ground. Sometimes his legs will not respond. Houses move. Occasionally, the floor falls. He hacks up black phlegm.