The girl

And I will destroy myself
in an attempt to shine light upon you...

As to there are no ashtrays in this home, I pour remains of cigarettes onto the styrofoam plate from Monday lunch. As to styrofoam would melt to the putting out of my cigarette, I press hard the butts into the cap of a Coca-Cola bottle. I need to sweep and need to mop, I need to go out for groceries. Yet all I do is watch the smoke spiralling up, its whiteness disappearing into the light which leaks in on a sunny Wednesday afternoon. I think there is enough food to feed the pups, at least for today. So there is barely an excuse to actually go out. Out is good, out there is people, out there is food, out I can buy more cigarettes. They take me away from myself, make me dance, singing that I am blind. I am blur of cognition, every speck of remembrance jettisons on the spinning of my body. I miss not what I do not have. I am beat. I am static. I am a whiff of smoke. I feel not what I don't have.

I smoke while I have a bag of corn chips, a pastry and soda. I smoke while I do the dishes and while I shower. I have found no excuse not to do it. So then I simply smoke my days away, addicted to the pleasure of resting my head against the cushions while I inhale deeply. One, two, three, four go by, my arm lazily stretching out to grab a fifth if there is a fifth. And if not, if there isn't a fifth, I simply close my eyes and cough, drained of air, of smoke, and feel how reality slowly catches up. There rains you, tapping the glass panes, leaking through the ceiling. There storms you, furiously in your calm. And I'd go out to drown. I would drown in blue devils. I swear I would do it were I not nailed to this yellow sofa, smoking a cigarette.

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