I sat outside my apartment with music and two cigarettes, a glass of water, a chill, closed eyes, open eyes, black trees, a blacker sky, a growing appreciation for solitude, the beat. If nothing else, I can see how cigarettes are craved as a medium for contemplation, or its imitation.
God damn! I feel dangerous when smoking. Poor soul! whoever threatens me while I'm on my lawn chair, demanding my contents, getting tobacco embers to the eye before I snatch his gun, break his ribs, pummel his nose, and shoot his knee. It's the nicotine talking. I'm sweet. What is this turning me into?
God damn! I feel dangerous when smoking. Poor soul! whoever threatens me while I'm on my lawn chair, demanding my contents, getting tobacco embers to the eye before I snatch his gun, break his ribs, pummel his nose, and shoot his knee. It's the nicotine talking. I'm sweet. What is this turning me into?
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