The problem with shooting heroin is the heaving. Eventually, you reach a point where you have nothing to throw up and it doesn’t matter anymore. But, until then, you shoot it, you want to heave.

So there I was with Chris, crashing at his parents in Enghein, some ritzy suburbs of Paris. We had been shooting up heroin and drinking beers downtown and getting fucked up and suddenly catching the last train back to bumfuck paradise where they raise horses and polite Christian girls and where Chris’ parents lived. I had never been there and I had no idea when was the last time Chris had been there.

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A day at the beach

A day at the beach

I’ve never forgotten Annette although I’ve hardly known her. I was a quite poor and quite unhappy young guy living in a small town in France about 80 miles from the sea, the Atlantic Ocean. I liked going to the ocean, which I would do, on my own, every chance I got. I had found this place, by a small fishermen village. There was a great beach and lonely dunes and the wind, always.

First I started to camp there by myself four or five times a year. Later, friends, boys and girls, hitchhiking from the city, later driving on motorbikes, would sometimes come with me. I remember going there as early as March and we’d go swim and the ocean was cold. So very fucking cold. You had to have balls, even if they shrunk, to go in there. And the girls sure took notice.

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