You don't care, at this particular point in time, that your mother loves you.
Nor do you care that beyond the bathroom door lies a finite number of opportunities that could make you something great, and that by blowing lines of dope off the ceramic surface of a toilet in a Brooklyn bathroom stall today, as you did yesterday, and probably will do tomorrow, you're most likely throwing them away.
All you care about, at this point in time, is getting the shit out of its wax paper bag, onto a semi-clean surface without spilling any of the powder into the toilet bowl.
And then, soon after leaving the bathroom, you'll find yourself careless…feeling that life is blissful, that you're incredibly healthy, and that the present moment in which you're living is the only period of time that could possibly matter.
