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221 Brownstone

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He's never really had the hang of it, this whole eating and sleeping (and pissing and fucking and Good God not even your nose can take care of itself without some kind of intermittent maintenance) routine. Left to his own devices, he'd as soon ignore the whole messy business, at least while there's something interesting to think about. But there isn't always, and then the urges echo more brightly up his spine, insisting that he do something, anything, now to quiet them. The tattoos had worked for a while. The needle pressing in, prick after prick, sharp and clean, again and again, leaving an ache for the chemistry of his brain to answer. And when he'd gone to find out what the addicts knew, to learn the details that would solve the puzzle at his fingertips, another needle had seemed like nothing more than that. One tiny prick to gain their trust, that's all. How was he to know that the drug would give him the silence he had never known? He was lost from the very first dose. He hadn't thought it possible, beyond the paralysis of sleep, to lie so untroubled beneath the wheel of stars. Who could have warned him that the insistent urges of his body would be nothing compared to the irresistible cravings of his brain?