The Dreamer’s Interlude

dsc_4541© 2017 City of Broken Dreams

Even with the recent milder weather, there’s still a bite to the air. It’s that fucking north wind—it never lets you forget where you really are. I try to position myself with my back to it, pulling up the collar of my jacket, trying to prevent its icy sting from slipping down the front of my shirt like the reptilian fingers of some coldblooded whore. But somehow, despite facing directly south, that damn wind still finds a way of cutting right through me—like a stiletto made out of pure glacial ice.

It takes me a few times, but I’m finally able to find the right angle to successfully spark up my third-to-last cigarette. Fucking hell—I’m not even a goddamn smoker, but the thought of soon not being able to intermittently break up my mundane existence by stepping outside to inhale diaphanous clouds of poisonous smoke sends a ripple of anxiety right through me.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Now savor it—the head rush, the vertiginous carcinogenic wake, the reality of a long and drawn-out, slow leisurely suicide.

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