• Often a butt and ember are flicked, either to break them from each-other so the filter can be discretely, safely be refused or together recklessly cast behind me but occasionally I get down on my hands and knees and pinch the product, all but consumed, in the most revealing way and slowly press it into concrete that may or may not be stained. First, the ashes give way and fall to the sides, dampening the ember's glow and soon, the dark speckles of the cherry shift and churn; they look like sunspots, or holes in swiss cheese, they flare and squish while the colored paper starts to burn - trying to escape Fate impending perhaps - fleeing towards my fingertips, warming their numbness almost to a sting. But such violence is fleeting and darkness gulps down the orange light with a single snap. The smoke nips at my eyes as Concrete's cold leans against my palms, cheek, knees and brow. Steady heat lingers in the studious pinch to fend off Numbness' assault but it's forces must be dwindling against such insurmountable opposition from every side; before I knew it the battle was over. Lost. Our side won. The mangled corpse is buried in a trash can with a flick for ceremony while I flashily consider this being worth the habit, the reason perhaps (and even if it's not I could call it whatever I like) for each countless predecessor and 'theoretically' infinite successor: the beauty of it, being reminded of my own mortality in so direct a way, and in this moment trying to add up the damage all this has done to me and imagining an endless dotting of future cigs until the ink in Time's pen finally runs too dry and fails to draw a connection to the next. Perhaps then the pen is simply cast away along with whatever would-be smudge it still contains, or possibly those last drops are peered at by some Other, just.. for ****'s sake! What's This!? Just the next page. And the next book. An-