----To put it simply, I am a puss. The cold trek back to my dorm room from the bar makes me aware. The trees tower over me and, being free of leaves, give me a silhouetted view of the clouded sky above. The moon glares at me, and yet continues to send beams of blue to light my way; I am not overwhelmed by the complete obscurity of darkness; I am not entirely lost. I am merely afraid.
----I remove my hand from the cozy interior of my pocket to grab un cigarrillo. I light it precisely and inhale the warm smoke. I release soft swirls of grey that linger in the air and paint portraits of the past behind me. I know better than to turn around and distract myself with their taunting, so I move on concentrated on the orange bead of fire emitting from the end of el cigarrillo that i hold ahead. It is much better than the moon's glares or the soft swirls; it offers so much more: a piece of mind, an action, a focus. I wont have to crane my neck at all to look up or back. All that is necessary is a straight stare forward, a direct contact with the future. Everything else is pointless shit.
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----los cigarrillos ware and ware away always, not to stay but to go as los cigarrillos do. They disappear and drop to the ground, down and down dancing with the awful things. They die just like friendships, and memories, and people. They die and do not burn again.
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