Phoenix Maplewood i've a notion that poetry is the highest form of self-deception

he takes the flower with him, and as the relief fades he chokes down more. he only needs a few more hours, he tells himself. it will all be okay once he's had enough; he'll find absynthe again, he'll apologize. he won't do this any more. just a few more hours.
he wanders aimlessly and nearly stumbles into claimed territory, awareness striking at the last moment and sending him scrambling away. as he retreats, he chides himself, his steps becoming directionless and robotic. anywhere away from the pack. he can't get into trouble again, not when he's so close to getting better. just a few more hours. he slows to a walk, and he walks until his head feels too heavy to hold and his limbs drag as if he's walking upstream. when he can't walk any more, he half-collapses against a tree and lowers himself to the ground, eyes clouded. he drops the flower, and all he can do is breathe.