Monkey Frocks

   I didn't want to leave the monastery. Oh. I'm sorry. I mean "the rehab". You see, there was,
for me, a sort of monastic quality about this rehab. Shuffling along, feet dragging along the tile floor and simultaneously hovering two inches above this earth.  
   Giving up my worldliness, like a monk. Separated from "people, places and things." The hospital gowns like monkly frocks (or monkey frocks.

   Living this aesthetic life, not even sacrificial wine would touch these rehab lips. A living saint was I, sustained on the holy water of an intravenous drip. Each patient nun and monk holier than thou.

   Here comes another needle.   
   Ouch! And ow. And om. And wow. Not high on life. Not now. Inject me slowly....  from All Drinking Aside (Rough Draft, Day 67)