I see those people, clinging onto their cigarettes as if they are their lifelines. If they just take one more drag, inhale just a bit deeper, they might make it in their social food chain. They might succeed in adding more cement and bricks to the wall that barricades them all off from real human contact – as if there is no other way to talk to someone than asking for a lighter.

I see those arty folk. Puffing away in their cloud of smoke, as if that cloud is an extension of all their existential and philosophical thoughts. The smoke machine of their life. Chattering on about art, sex and politics as if that cigarette gives them authority. As if they can call themselves an artist just because they smoke. As if it is some kind of right of passage to the world of Van Gogh, Mozart and Stanislavsky.

“But it’s attractive, that element of self destruction.”
“Oh, darling. What could possibly be attractive about you disappearing in a puff of smoke?”

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