I was gripped with anxiety as visions of a half dozen dead friends and acquaintances scrolled before my sleep-deprived eyes: the memory of Daylene, Bo, Croc, and Seth weighed especially on my mind. These dark memories were joined by the specters of the twenty-five hundred dead victims of Thailand's drug war, marching before my mind's eye like the columns of a defeated, retreating army.
What horrors did this affably malignant culture hold for me and my friends? I felt I had loosened the cap on a bottle of poison: but what was I feeling? Realistic anxiety, or amphetamine-fueled paranoia?
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