When will a smoker slip on the smooth crystal surface of their vice? Pedants lean against each nicotene chemist’s studio walls, caught in a love triangle between habit and knowledge.

Smoke bores through ash as the poison settles into its fleshy dustbin. Smoke walks casually down the street, shadowing its deity, purged into a metro or sent spinning aloft.

Ash scatters on wings of canned air. Ash overcomes nicotene, overcomes all things, for it is their fate. Nicotene tolls ring from ashen bells as smoke pools in forbidden places.

The warmth survives the cigarette.

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