I breathe in. It's the most simple thing I know. Apparently cigarettes don't go bad...or at least they haven't yet. And so I smoke, often. It grounds me in some unholy way to the time and place that I'm living in. The desolate landscape, the true emptiness of the sphere that we knew as earth which somehow deserves another name today. Or had a different name before humans. Now it's me, the cigarettes and the wolves. I feel like the Marlboro man. Strike that. The last Marlboro man.
The smoke calms me for a minute. Long enough to get lost in a spider's web. It's like the story of my childhood, oh how I wish that web weaver would say something. Stupendous. Glorious. Any word, hell I would just give for some bad form of a smiley face. I stare and hope that the spider somehow knows me, can feel that I'm there. But she doesn't care. I don't know how many days it's been, not that many to be honest, but it feels like...well it feels like years. I can feel every beat of my heart, and I feel it beat faster as I breathe the smoke in with little regard to the conservation of beats. The spider remains. Working through its web like nothing has changed. One more inhale as I melodically reach out to that web, hoping I can just feel something. And there I go again, ruining everything in my path. Crushing webs with forefingers in hopes that I can feel something new and fresh and free. Well, at least now my spider friend has a hole to patch, and what am I left with? Cartons and cartons of cigarettes.
