"‘It looks like Oz. This is what I think as Manhattan comes into view through the windshield of my friend Dave’s jeep. The crowded towers poke the sky with their metal and glass and in the midday haze look faraway, mythic, more idea than place. We’re driving in thick traffic that moves swiftly and in unison. A month ago I hadn’t noticed the city receding behind us as we drove from Lenox Hill Hospital to the rehab in White Plains. Between Lenox Hill and rehab I’ve been in treatment for six weeks. He’s offered me his place for a few weeks while I find somewhere to live. I’ve just finished four weeks in a small drug-and-alcohol rehab on the grounds of an old mental asylum. Dave drove me there after I was released from the psych ward at Lenox Hill Hospital, where I wound up after a two-month bender that ended in a fistful of sleeping pills, a bottle of vodka, a crack pipe stuffed to bursting, and an ambulance.’"