Oklahoma City/Wicker Park: April 19, 1995

I watch the disaster at the Murrah Federal Building with a syringe in my arm.

It is the first day of our spring break, JP and I, and I’ve been paid the Friday before. Free from work and flush with cash, we have spent the weekend in our eternal pursuits—planning and scoring and shooting and fucking, again and again. It is April and spring is in full gear in Wicker Park, and JP has his guitar and I have my computer and we have amps and four-tracks and CDs and music and poetry and smack, and there is nothing else we need.

We turn on the TV this morning and watch the first bulletins, nodding between shots, shooting between speculations. It is all horrible, of course, but we have heroin and each other.

We watch the newscasters searching for the story—and we measure water.

We watch the graphics of a pancaking building—and we hold the spoon over the flame.

We listen to speculations about Arab terrorists—and we tie off, looking for veins.

We watch footage of tearful rescuers and bloody babies—and we press the plunger.

The coverage goes on for a week. And for a week we plan and score and shoot and fuck, again and again, and watch.

There is a world outside—but it is not our world. In our world the only things that can go wrong are missed shots and overdoses, going broke or getting burned, going sick or getting busted. Bombs and buildings, blood and babies, suicidal Arabs or gun-mad white men with the taste of Waco and Ruby Ridge at the back of their throats—they can move us, maybe, but they can never touch us. We are young and brilliant and going-to-be-famous, and we are invincible, and safe.