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

he doesn't stir until someone nearly trips over him, and his response is slow even then. a grey stranger; he notes that his eyes almost match the poppy at his feet. the cursing draws a snort from him, but he doesn't meet the other's eyes until he asks if he's okay.
"does it matter," he wonders aloud, tone bored and a touch disdainful. "whether i think i'm okay or not, i'm here, fucked up out of my mind and getting tripped over by nosy strangers. never seen rock bottom before, i take it?" it's far more words than he's accustomed to, and he finds his voice rough with disuse, a touch of his old accent bleeding through. he studies the stranger expectantly, wondering if he'll decide to be smart and leave unlike the last stranger to stumble upon him in such a state.