A scabrous ego, pulsating with black market hunger. It slithers up the mirrored pyramid of power, convinced it’s the diamond at the apex. This ain’t no penthouse suite, baby, it’s a roach motel wired with paranoia. The diamonds are chipped, the champagne’s bathtub gin, and the only view is a kaleidoscope of self-loathing fractured by chrome and glass. This ain’t a food chain, it’s a ouroboros with a taste for Gucci loafers. It swallows its own tail with each glistening fix, a hollow echo chamber of need amplifying into oblivion. Narco Narcissism – where self-love curdles into a toxic sludge, and the only validation comes from the flickering neon sign of a pharmacy cross.

This a spastic ballet of ego and id, pirouetting on a stage of self-inflicted ruin. The junkie’s gaze, magnified by shards of broken glass and warped by cheap thrills, sees themselves as Colossus bestriding the world – a Colossus strung out on angel dust and wet dreams.

This ain’t the marble halls of Freud’s Vienna, no sir. This narcissism is feral, clawing its way out of a malnourished psyche. It’s a hollow echo chamber, where whispers of grandeur bounce off the slick sheen of sweat and desperation. The mirror in the bathroom cracks, not from the user’s weary visage, but from the monstrous weight of their own delusion. They are both king and court jester in this sordid play, a drama fueled by needles and punctuated by the desperate scramble for score.

They are Narcissus, yes, but Narcissus reflected in a funhouse mirror – grotesque, distorted, a parody of the myth. The pool they bend over is not cool and clear, but fetid and stagnant, filled with the detritus of self-destruction. And the love object they see staring back? A stranger, gaunt and hollow-eyed, a ghost of their former selves.

This ain’t the marble immortality of the Caesars, it’s a chrome-plated coffin careening down a one-way street paved with fixer dust. The world shrinks to a pinprick reflection in the spoon, a distorted funhouse mirror image where flaws morph into grotesque caricatures of power. The hunger for the next fix eclipses everything, a bottomless pit craves validation, craves oblivion, craves anything but the gnawing emptiness beneath the borrowed bravado. It’s a grotesque ballet, a danse macabre performed on a stage littered with needles and desperation. Narco Narcissism ain’t pretty, baby, it’s a one-man show hurtling towards a blackout.