"The Bottle", by Gil Scott-Heron.
A sad end to a sad life. I read a New Yorker profile of the man last year. He still had dreams and ambitions, but he also couldn't move too far from his crack pipe. I can't recall any other New Yorker profile where the subject had a crack pipe in his living room. Drugs might screw you up, but if it is the music industry that hooks you on those drugs, what (or who) is really doing the screwing?
