Misplaced Personal High

Wake up at 10:30 to an empty pipe. What naturally takes you 30 seconds to pack feels like the roofie you slipped yourself. It always starts with a simple Hell(o). Her chill sends shakes reaching to escape through my fingertips. The salt dripping from my brow stings my eyes and dries my parted lips.
A great light awakens in the darkness. A message of immense calmness steadies the mind to jump over all these blurred lines. Nothing but shapes and color to entertain the melting pot overflowing in my head. Too much spillage that forces the maid in my head to work overtime. Here's to no "maids comp" uprisings. Their payment is the liquor that bases my cocktail of mental toxicity.
Common themes of forgetfulness and destruction outline the bio of my life. I've seemed to have misplaced my own personal high yet again. The pictures of where I left it last turn up distorted and blank. Struggle to remember until a loud ear piercing harrowing scream engulfs my senses. My eyes open to see the light of the clock; 10:30. My eyes dart down to the pipe; empty. My hands tremble as I load another bowl. Pack it tight. Don't worry Preston, you'll forget soon enough.