He silently clamours things of next level, an extraordinary state of everything. The trail of fumes the drug left was a proof; a proof that he pays tremendously to attain the extreme.
The prodigy, draped in a ragged gear, confined himself to abandonment, was in a misconception that the pleasure was being carried to another level. Standing near the window that had freshly rusted grills, he was manufacturing pleasure profusely. Many claim this to be their monopoly!
‘I am the lord’, he thought as he inhaled deeply paving way for it to destroy his assets. The fumes he let out knew. It virtually read- ‘you are my slave’.