Find. Michael Jordan

This is a piece from a writing prompt some friends and I did. Historical Figure on one side of a piece of paper, pass to the left, verb on the other, pass left. Person 3 writes a piece including both. I got Michael Jordan and find.

I find myself walking down an alley in the city, drunkenly stumbling like a child taking its first steps. But inside my mind I am getting air like Jordan. Muscles cramp as take a leap, mind exploding in joy as I soar. Yet in reality, I am broken. Black heart taken away by booze, women, pens and paper, in this moment, I have lost the ability to be responsible. As I grasp the fire escape, paint in hand, my brain wanders from things of that nature. Rent, work, my girlfriend, each one falls to the wayside as if they were the rungs beneath my feet. Suddenly, my body aches and my mind jolts back to life. Pavement. Pain. I have fallen again. Stumbling up quickly I silently pray nobody saw me, but from the sound of a bum cackling like a scavenger filled on its latest find I know the truth. God damn crows. I attempt to take a step and collapse. Legs no longer willing to work, I'm on life's tilt a whirl. Eyes wide. Wet fingers. Blood. Vomit. I feel like death. Waltzing wobbly into the street a cab driver swerves to avoid me, I just stare into the headlights suddenly sober. As i f i was tied to the tracks the train of understanding cuts me in two. Entrails spilling out, I can see them falling in my body to the street as if it were a stream. The umbilical cord of my, Responsibilities. Helpless, I lay down in the gutter and close my eyes. Opening them once more I see a darkened room. Monitor quietly beeping the rhythm of my heart. Alive. Damn. I have been here for months. Dreaming. Fighting. Slipping into death. A nurse walks in, informing me its time for another round of kemo, and I groan softly.