the smoke curls around me. hugging me. loving me. the smoke drifts and forms into memory. smoke. i smoke. i am smoke. i am smoke and mirrors. flickering fireworks of nicotine and memory blossum in my mind. the smoke animates this dried carcass i inhabit. i move trailing smoke. smoke signaling the satellites. my mind drifts across the cluttered dining room table.
i am in love with the memory of being in love. i smell my fingers and smell smoke. i count down my time with cigarettes. when people ask me how long ive been waiting i reply "one cigarette" or "two cigarettes". it has become a measure by which all that remains will be measured. darkland understands. there seems to be an endless supply of cigarettes there. it know how to tempt me, calm me, cage me.
even when i see something written on the walls of the factory like "you will be dead by this time next year", i just take another drag and im fine. everything is fine. i am fine. life is fine. the world is a beautiful place. i am practicing. smoke and ectoplasm are very much alike. one day i will show you. but until them i will smoke.
i will be the ground fog crossing the moors under the full moon on a soundstage at univeral studios in 1936. and i will be what i am. smoke and mirrors.