The
poured concrete steps, rough by design, are glazed with
rain, evened out by
nature. It's
two AM, and I have yet to start my
Kernel analysis assignment. A passing
car tears through the watery street-skin, shaking and reforming the street-light reflections behind it - the world is too fast for an
analog mindset. I reach into my shirt pocket to retrieve the laminated packet of
Sampoerna Milds, flip it open and retrieve a single cylinder of
toxic goodness. The
match flares up, wood is incinerated and
tobacco starts glowing. I close my eyes. The first
drag makes the sound of a needle hitting a record, a type of
analog scratching. My mouth, slightly dried out, is filled with a taste of
southeast asia slightly tainted by
sulfur - but that soon subseeds. I exhale, forming my first
cloud, watching it dissipate in the humid wind. Another
drag, another bit of
tape hiss.
Smoking is the adult equivalent of blowing bubbles. Still frowned upon indoors or around people who are "above it." More dangerous, certainly - but one can see so much in the smoke, hear so much in the burn. I sense a world long passed away.