The Fleeting Smoke of our Innermost Desires

An American Spirit cigarette hangs from my lips as I step into the cold darkness of the late night, though I suppose one of a different perspective could easily enough interpret it as early morning. I stand under the wooden walkway of the second floor. It acts as a sort of awning, shielding me from direct exposure to the all-encompassing darkness that is night. The lamp to my left ruins the solitude I was hoping to find peace in. I contemplate unscrewing the bulb, so that I may properly enjoy my loneliness. Before I can reach for the bulb, I overhear my neighbors arguing about spoiled pie and stale cake. What’s the point. If not the light, then the noise will slice through the night.

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