Dxm. Half a bottle of the vile, gag-inducing syrup and an hour of nauseous waiting, and I am dissociated. Sitting in the passenger seat, staring at the moon. I become the music. Nangs. He cracks two and I take them. Then he loads me another. Take it all, he says. Inhale. Stop. Inhale. Stop. For a second, everything goes still. Am I dying? Dead? Music loses its nuances. In a moment, it's nothing but noise. White. Black. Same thing. A lick of guitar, well placed, takes me back-back-back. Stopstart pictures run across my vision. The rear-view mirror anchors me, and the world pieces back together around it. He speaks; I look. Who is this strange man sitting beside me? Are we in the car? I could've sworn I was just dreaming about this.