I’m locked in the toilet of a five-star hotel in central London, stuffing £10 notes into a padded envelope before heading up to Mailboxes Inc. where I write out an address and company name. The name sounds more like a weird sex emporium than a perfectly respectable psychedelics dealer and the woman behind the counter, spotting the cash inside the envelope, gives me a wry look that seems to suggest she knows I’m up to something. I squirm, pay the postage, and leave.
I usually stay away from drugs. I have a greediness for sensation, an unquenchable desire for more and more and more, so after a few bad experiences, I stopped. But then, after a period of feeling incredibly low, I was searching for something to bring me back from the edge, and psychedelics presented themselves almost by accident.
