Told you guys about this on Kelly & Emmy's porch.

The day is still, and I am watching all of creation in the blue smoke pouring heavenward from the end of my cigarette. It is an impromptu ballet whose music I cannot hear, only taste; whose dancers betray gravity in lieu of a lasting life; whose audience consists solely of me, and my stubborn pen. Like geometry unharnessed, it is the ephemeral portrait of the Almighty Himself - bending and swerving and spiraling and falling and lifting, given to whims as capricious as His own judgement. It is not yet Death's umbilical cord, as it has been for so many. Who am I kidding? It is mine already. Have no doubt as I light another just to watch it burn: Plaintive poetry flowing out in ghostly cursive: the whispers from a lovelost; a caveat too beautiful, so left unheeded, floating with enticing grace and heartwrenching fragility. As I inhale, its form folds in on itself and is sighed from me in dozens of squid-like specters, leaving their tarcoated corpses smoldering in my chest - can feel their venom still. Returning my gaze to the slowly burning end, I see the silhouette of a man: His name is Cecil. He is sailing on a boat and the wind is strong on his face, he's taking big, mirthful gulps of it. I am carried into his lungs by the wind coming off the sea. It is too dark to write anymore down here.