Smoke

January 13th

The tiny space was lightly coated with the smell of stale towels. Standing on a rug that's cushioning was spent long ago, he hung his head back like a free moving hinge. He thought of her and he thought of this. He sat deep and shivered down the days first drink. It hit cold but coarse, half helping the itching in his throat, half doing nothing but coating his teeth with a film of what he gathered as some type of sugary slime. Along with the days first liquids came the days first fire. Something about the contrast interested him along with how unnatural he often thought these, and other actions of himself and others, were. Smoked rolled consistently out of the tip of this quarter smoked cigarette and he could only think about how badly he never wanted to quit. how he loved the feeling. how it matched his sadness. his friend once professed that it was that deep urge to self destruct. to mutilate yourself. something sinister and natural that burned inside us, borderlined with insanity and psychopathology. His mind was taking a turn for the worse again, so he snubbed the smoke and rose away from the pale winter morning's light. Another year's beginning wrought with the idea of an open door. Now that door seems revolving, endlessly squeaking the grease from its hinges, more of a spectacle than an opening.