...of Smoke

Why does this Live music make me feel so Gaelic? I feel like I'm growing inside, all four boxes of me, filled with beauty and poetic napkins.
The bubbles rise from the empty glass. My concentration rests on schizophrenic colours of cigarette smoke, sliding across the gold bands of death...SHIT, why shouldn't I have another!?

Crush, smother.

Perfect echo of the scrape on the lid as I pull the next victim from the near empty pack, what a pleasantly engineered sound, preparing my body for the competition of poisons. I expertly rotate it between my fingers, the filtered tip moving expectantly toward my parted lips. I place it, precisely. It's familiarity is well balanced, slightly to the right. Flick, Flick, flare...inhale, smoke-ring, smoke-ring, exhale...