i remember, this one time when i was a little younger than i am now. it was a normal evening. the first time i smoked half a packet of ciggarettes at a go but other than that it was quite a normal obscenely late evening.

ciggarettes are like jossticks, which in turn, are like dead grandparents burning in a crematorium. one moment they are, and the next, they are not. it isn't the same as crushing a can of coke or smashing a vase onto the floor. to burn something is to relinquish it to the realm of not. the moment they burn they start disappearing, it's like you go up to the one in charge in the world of non existance and you go, hey, here's my ciggarette, here's my grandfather. people don't die and pieces of paper don't burn out, they disappear, entirely, wholesomely, completely.

a friend and i shared that pack of ciggarettes. which is why i only had half. we sat on a railing with our feet dangling above a storm drain. once in a while a car would pass us and once in a while we would feel like calling it a day. but we continued swinging our feet and smoking our ciggarettes and talking about the absurdity of sentient being despite all that. heartfelt, but pointless existantial musings, the only indication of time being the speed in which our ciggarettes burned out. time didn't stand still. it shuffled its way forward in it's hobbling gait. the wind blew like it always does and the orange glow of the street lights showed me how awkward i looked with a ciggarette between my fingers.

when you break something into pieces, a vase, a guitar, or a heart for example, the object remains, albeit in a form which is broken and disassembled but at the end of the day you can still tell somebody, hey here's my broken guitar, hey, here's my broken heart. to have something dissapear is to leave a gapping hole in where it should have been and like any newtonian vacuum it draws everything in and it consumes it.
I have seen people who start to fade away while they are still alive, like black holes they draw everything in. gravity is despair and the only fact that keeps us from drowning is the fact that we indeed are islands. emotionally we contain ourselves  with only apparent indication of connection. it prevents us form being dragged and pulled under by somebody else who is drowning. i sit infront of the television watching the news, shake my head and go tsk tsk tsk.

it feels good to have someone sitting next to me. to witness the smoke coming out of my nostrils, to affirm me that it's blue and yes it is indeed very beautiful how it climbs up in a fragile plume before being obliterated by the wind. yes it is very beautiful and yes i am a very special person to think so highly of a fucking plume of smoke. it feels good to have someone to perform to, an audience to have me know that, it's okay this is not who i really am, i am merely an actor, playing a role and playing it fucking well. he is the one who gives me the loudest applause and i would almost call him my best friend. without him, the calculated way in which i cross my legs ( ankle on other knee, slightly bored, but not uninterested, relaxed, disarming with a shade of retractiveness ) or the way in which i articulate my words with my hands ( in a way that appears charming but not in an off putting way ) will be lost to the one or two people who pass by in their 100 km/h taxi cabs.

he told me it was late and patted me on my shoulder. before he closed the door of his taxi he told me that i am a beautiful person and that he always enjoyed these long conversations with me. the taxi went off and air rushed in to fill the space where it was. there was a single star in the sky and the moon had long set. the clouds went on by, conceited, uncaring and beautiful.