On the 21st day, the sun didn’t hate me, the food wasn’t angry, the bed didn’t sigh. The ceiling said it’s possible I might get my looks back, on the 21st day of my stay here. On the 21st day I danced through the 12 step, examined, admitted I’m powerless to. Sang the one about the spring the cat ran away, on the 21st day of my court-ordered stay here. The punk and the priest and the real estate agent, the girl with no teeth and the shaky marine, the Serbian dead-head who wears his sunglasses “so no one can see at my eyes.” In for three weeks or in for forever, here at the 17th Street Treatment Centre. Most of us probably not getting better, but not getting better together.
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