“When I first started writing, no one told me
that it was a sickness, that my friends and family
would have to look after me, and that the women
whom I touch with this pen would later visit me

in the clinical ward. That I would be assigned
to a detox center. That sadly I would fake
improvement, pretend in front of the children
and the director that I’m healthy. That I would hide

in the kitchen at night and do it, write surrounded
by all the little monsters, kitchen demons,
phantoms and paranoias, hallucinations, obsessions—
write with trembling hands. After all, no one said

how shameful it is and how stupid you must be
to let affairs in a dream infect you.”
—
Tomasz Rozycki, “Firewater”