John's had this string of bad luck

We paced around his apartment in an evening cold with Portland
air.
I would stare
six stories down and
around my vision haloed lights littered the scene, the darkness hue now
a curious blue. We guzzled Carlo Rossi, wine from a jug. We smoked
parliament lights. Recessed filter.
I stare at the moon.
The darkness hue.
I have drunk revelations of throwing marshmallows out the window. Maybe
later.
I have sober ideas drowned in wine. The eyes wind down to an expanse of
gray.
Gray.
This mute and mundane shade of something once darker. When we come to
our respective ends, no more signals to send, it won't be bright or
blissful; it won't be thick pitch black or frightening. No sound no
feeling. Just a dull way to cease as a being.
Gray. It will surround us.
'It sounds bleak' he tells me.
'I guess.' I'm drunk but distant. Might as well be alone.

Evening to morning so smoothly so calmly we don't pay attention. We
look for color. I look for color. He slumps in his chair in a drunk
sleep. Tomorrow his head will curse him and he'll sip black
coffee.
Black is hopeful. It's an absence. We can only add to it. I can detract
nothing from nothing.
Morning but there's still no color. Where can we go from here?
Half trashed and drained of energy I call over to John's place but the
ring lies dead and repetitious. I'm positioned on the tile of the tiny
kitchen and hang my head and gaze at the white of the floor.
White is a nuisance. Vibrant. I hate to be reminded of purity. It only
exists in color but we want it so badly to pertain to us.
No answer from calling so it's coat and shoes and down the stairs and
out the door. The streets are sloshed with homeless drinkers. I smile
the same as I always do and down the block I tread. I know John's home.
At 3.14 in the morning I know John would be cutting magazines to pieces
and putting together surrealist scenarios on red construction
paper.
Red is just confusing; the color that won't leave me alone. Intense and
loud. I'm happy to avoid it for now.
Or perhaps John was preoccupied with another favorite early morning
activity. Loading himself with smack and playing with the rabbit in the
corner, Spaghetti Birthday he was named and loved odd little rabbit
games.
3.34 I open the door after too much knocking noise and am suddenly
stricken with a pounding heart condition as I see my friend face down
on the table and turning blue.
Blue is too many things to really describe. And I don't have the time
to wax philosophically currently.
I haven't a clue how long he's been blue but I'm sure it's not long and
I scramble to his drawer and come out with a needle that I slam into
his heart and hope it works.
Adrenaline. Right to the heart. No response.
I shake and tremble and all the other things you do when life is too
heavy.
Shot number two.
Right to the heart.
He gasps, I'm shaking, crying, smiling as I help him sit up properly.
He tells me once completely aware of the world that it was cocaine and
heroin. A speedball. He was stupid, he says.
I nod.
'So what colors did you see?'