this is of course a cumbersome habit i’ve gotten into: writing while i smoke outside. but i love it so, i love sitting outside and thinking the world as i imagine it, writing down spur of the moment thoughts and lines that have haunted me. i wonder sometimes if everything i’ve written has already been written somewhere and it leaks out, butchered by these clumsy hands. i know less and less words, moments of time disappear into sewers of memory, lost in the sludge. the cigarette drops ashes like leaves and the slow steady rain brings me a comfort i yearn for everyday.