The Passenger: Chapter One (Revise)Mature

It’s a funny thing, really. When I was younger, my parents told me that when I turned thirty, or forty, or fifty even, I would still never have the world completely figured out. It’s very possible that they’re right. Yet, at the age of twenty one, and even as my mind’s eye began to fracture, everything slowly started to become more lucid. If there’s one thing I do know as a universal truth, however, it is this: people are capable of anything. Every single person you will ever meet in this life has the power to amaze, dumbfound, and utterly devastate you.

And above all others, that includes yourself.

I was raised on the Boulevard in West Hartford, Connecticut, and I know what you’re thinking, but trust me it’s not what it sounds like. Oh “the Boulevard,” and “in Connecticut.” How glamorous and high class, and actually, it was. But let me tell you that I had my first taste of heroin by the age of sixteen, and I got it from the wife of a city councilman who lived three houses down from me.  

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