Sept. 23, 2024 – Through the unwashed, smoke-stained windows of the gin mill, I watched commuters strolling down the hill, headed for Journal Square and the PATH trains to Manhattan. The sun was bright, the vista was “sparkling,” to use your word, and the commuters were stepping along briskly, chatting and smiling. I was overwhelmed by the comparison between what I saw and what I was. On that “sparkling September morning,” I finally surrendered to an honest admission of my addiction and asked for help without reservation.
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