Goa, End of the Line

They are twenty years old and soon they will go out, like their pipes. But they don’t know it.

Their hair is still long and healthy, if tangled; their eyelids, unwrinkled, open up over expressionless, washedout eyes. Their cheeks have kept the roundness of childhood, but their color is deathly ashen. They have all their teeth, but they no longer brush them. They are twenty years old but the blood runs sluggishly through their veins. In Goa, at the end of the hashish trail, they will come to their end very soon, in smoke, but they don’t know it.

SL

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Suzanne Labin

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They are twenty years old and soon they will go out, like their pipes. But they don’t know it.

Their hair is still long and healthy, if tangled; their eyelids, unwrinkled, open up over expressionless, washedout eyes. Their cheeks have kept the roundness of childhood, but their color is deathly ashen. They have all their teeth, but they no longer brush them. They are twenty years old but the blood runs sluggishly through their veins. In Goa, at the end of the hashish trail, they will come to their end very soon, in smoke, but they don’t know it.