like stardust trapped and floating in lava lamp

i stare at this window. it's been 17 minutes.

i like smoke. i like how it twirls and swirls, making random patterns as it disappears. i like how i can manipulate the patterns by moving the cigarette it's emanating from. just like kaleidascopes, only less colorful and a little more sombre. sombre. that's what it is. i sort of expect an accompaniment of slow lazy music maybe played on a clarinet or a saxaphone in low bassy notes. draggy. and maybe a sultry woman in red with red poppies in her hair, singing about loneliness, love lost, and the contentment of life all in one breath. she'll blow me kisses between verses. she sings with her eyes closed. and when she opens them, they're deep brown and clear. and i will asphyxiate on sight. i sit on the toilet bowl, cigarette between my fingers, closet smoker that i am. bathroom smoker. in denial. hiding. keeping secrets. Douglas Adams' compendium opened before me on my lap. unread. incomplete. his british humour blurring. giving way to imagined music and the hypnotic swirls of the cigarette. i forget to read. i forget to cry. i forget the things i want to say to everyone. i forget to take swigs of smoke from the cigarette. i let it burn. i let it dance. i let it fill me with nonexistence and indifference and beautiful random patterns. beautiful random patterns that lie and cheat you of your very own self. you eat it all up. store it all away. exhale a little of your soul each time you spit out smoke. i end up under the shower, unsure if i am crying. tears unsalted by running water. i am hit by a barrage of words. ideas. visions. all of which are slowly draining away along with the water. down the drain. into the sewage. i do not have time to grab pen and paper to write them all down. i have nothing to save them in. all bottles are filled with colored array of shower cream and shampoo. for a moment, i stop to ponder the significance of my toiletry shelf. the tiny bottles of shower cream. the array of odds and ends. rusted disposable razor in pink. vase of purple plastic tulips. old bottles of aquarium pH balancer and fish food. lighter. stray china tea plate with cigarette burns. abused. misused. lost. it's all me. i am naked under the shower with thoughts drowning me and i can't reach out to save myself without losing something. without the effects of the smoke wearing off and leaving me sober again. i will never find out what douglas adams is trying to tell me. not in a very long while anyway. and i'll end up flicking lighter and watching flames and spark pop up before me when i run out of cigarette smoke.

bowlful of guppies and a bottle of mixed herb

little boy who cried wolf, i don't think you're ready to know the truth. it'll rip you apart and eat you alive. it'll leave you with nothing but your eyes and heart.

i've been craving for a good plate of pasta for ages. i've had some but i still crave it. pile on the parmesan and herbs. i need my stomach filled and my head so heavy from eating that all i can do is loll stupidly in front of an empty plate and smoke clove cigarrettes with coffee.