May 13, 7:50 am.
I am back in an office, business as usual, and I am reminded of a lot of things I would rather forget.
The smell of cigarettes much too early in the morning, a blanket of smoke and smokers blocking the entrance to my office building. I want to douse them in gasoline and watch them ignite themselves. They smell like a thousand farts and breaths of halitosis.
The taste of a 7-eleven breakfast. The solitude of lunch. The tick-tock that my computer’s clock doesn’t make as it counts down the minutes until I’m free to leave this seat, this building, this lung-cancerous city.
If all the people in the world holding a cigarette at this very moment fell dead.. would you mind?
I’ve memorized the rhythm of the train pulling into a station. Ta-ka tug dug, ta-ka tug dug, ta-ka tug-dug… stop. Doors open. People push. Doors close. Again and again and again.
Doors close.
