so well established, how useless the chemicals of the brain-- i do not need pleasure or grief, i have no use for anger or lust. all i need is the scent of tobacco on fingertips, the rush of drunken breath behind the curve of my neck. the artificiality is what attracts me, the control and precision of a created high: decision-making, pure and uninhibited. no use even for oxygen in this crowded, close room; you press up on me as i reach for the glass.