I sit here with a small bowl of flaked bluefin tuna, lime juice and cracked pepper. Cigarettes are on the counter, but I don't smoke inside my house, and it's five degress below ball-stickingly cold outside. I don't even want one that bad anyway, but I ache for that dull burn. The savoury tang of red-hot smoulder, acrid twists inside and out. The borgeouis yellowing of the fingers is something I never took kindly to, though, and it's that thought which keeps my zippo quenched and the cigarette unrolled.
I'm rambling. Because I don't know what to say. Vital spark - Sparkless. Life - lifeless.
I don't know what to write any more. Fuck you all.
yeah, that'll do.