First there is the fidgeting. The wrenching boredom compounded by a total lack of excitement, the spirit of the rush lingering but long dead. Then comes the quaking, shivering chill from withdrawal. Hunger dissipates quickly, followed by withering and depression. Extremities once tense and bloated sink into plush recliners and rest inert.
Fingers fall idle.
The jones is always tugging. It's Monicashock setting in like rigor mortis. The big lies are history. No more snippets of fondling and touching. No more leaks that set the town afire.