This is mostly poetry, about the intelligence and lack of among addicts, and about the ideas we all need, when living with addicts in our communities, for enabling addiction to enter recovery. It is mostly for addicts, who may or may not, agree. It mostly might seem to the addict to excuse their drug use, but, after all, when addiction's game was within the illusion that all of what disables us from drug use, was equitably useful to excuse drug use, what words can we have for but those that bemuse. It is also a story about a story about the story of being me, a haver of bad habits, and perhaps thus an addict. And in the story of my life, I sell a shell for recovering in well, but lied and sold it as the worst habit out, to see what may crawl in and make a home of this, so I could tell him I am a wife. And he did, and I have, and this is nice. A book begun without the man I call husband, that became how I began to learn to rediscover what a woman is to a man, as the lover of life.
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