crash, circa ‘91-‘94. four years. your punishment and your salvation. four long years’ worth of cocaine and meth, of drink, of acid and heroin, ecstasy, sickly-sweet lung exhaust and the way leather gets when your sweat seeps into the lining, when the veins inside your nose start to crack and bleed with each snort; four fuckin’ years, death and drugs, bullets and bullet holes—but the shackles are off. you're fucked up, but you’re free.

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