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Sometimes, I wish I smoked. Not because I want an early death, but I feel like I'm the type of person that would smoke. I don't know if that makes sense. I'm just constantly going off by my self and just enjoying the lack of people and noise. I usually do this when I'm stressed or freaking out about something, and that's usually when people smoke. Beyond that I just wish I kind of had something to do with my hands while I'm off by myself, and smoking would be something to do. In all honesty, I hate smoke and smoking, but I can see myself doing it. It's not an idea that I entertain seriously though. That would be stupid on my part; smoking so I'll have something to do...lame.
It was cold and pitch black except for his warmth and the light from the cherry of his cigarette. I could almost feel myself growing attached, forming a near-primal bond through the basic warmth, stability, and orgasms that he provided. His cigarette crackled as he took another drag and its little light got brighter for a second, lighting his face to reveal that he was peering at me through crumpled hair over squinted eyes. I looked away, reminding myself that he would probably leave any time, that I was lucky to have had him for this long. My mind started forming links between the transient nature of this man and the smoke that flitted out of sight as it drifted from his face. But I stopped myself. Such thoughts don't belong anywhere but my emo ramblings in the Ether.