rèver.

the last words of a shooting star. - jimmy page

hollow and empty.

a shell of a person who once lived in a full and healthy body.

friends surrounded him, concerned.

everyone surrounded him nowadays.  some saddened, some who were the same, some who just didn't notice.

empty and drained.  perhaps more drained.

limbs that were too skinny, too lanky.  ribs that poked out in each direction.  hair that was once taken care of for hours on end, now dull and stringy.

he didn't care though.  heroin was the thing that loved his body, not him.  he couldn't care less about himself, if we're being honest.

still, at times, in the midst of a heroin daze, he'd reminisce.

just a few years back, he was generally healthy.  sure, he drank, smoked, all that stereotypical rockstar stuff.  but at least he had control of his actions at the time.

at least he could eat without being attacked with stomach pains.  at least his appearance was presentable. 

nothing was ever constant in his life and never would be, besides his guitars.  now, heroin was included.  that's why heroin was his new life.

it was a constant thing for him.  always right by him in the convinient leather pouch he's had since forever.  once used for art supplies, now used for drugs supplies.

there was one other thing that was consistent, but that thing didn't like him.  didn't like who or how he was now.

that thing tried to stop him; tried to change him back. 

and deep down, jimmy knew he wanted his old self back just as much as that thing.  sometimes, though rarely, he would consider it.

he used to glow.  and no, not because of how pale he is.  his talents used to shine through, blind people even.  people would acknowledge him, and it all worked out.

now, he still did shine, but only with the help of his white satin suit.

he was like a shooting star, but even those die out.  don't they?

maybe he's confused.  maybe he's just being his old, weird self.  relating himself to mystical things and whatnot, convinced that they are his past life form.

with a shake of his head, he blankly looked at the dressing room through his unnecessary sunglasses.

the other three were in there, talking about, eating garlic bread and whatnot.

he wanted to grab a piece.  just a little bite to make his stomach happy. 

but, his heart and brain worked as one, easily voting against it.

so, all he did was stare.  stare at them enjoy their food wishing he could do the same. 

when was the last time he had something solid? 

he doesn't know, he barely remembers what happened yesterday.

he knows he had banana daiquiri.  of course.  he had a bottle of jack, which he ended up spilling since the bottle was too heavy.

to his own surprise, he didn't shoot up.  maybe that's why the withdrawl was kicking in today.

suddenly, robert was next to him.    jonesy and bonzo had left.

robert plant.  the young, lively hippie.  the golden god.

all the things that contrast himself.

"hey."  robert spoke quietly.