Blasphemy by Bader Shehab

It’s quite often that I pluck the burning cigarette onto the curtain cloth, it’s a bad old habit. But you know what they say: “old habits die hard” or something of the sort. Pease, leave me a receipt after I check out and I’ll have your curtain replaced.

You know what… I have been on a bit of a bender as of late; in and out of motels and moving state to state. Sometimes I’m not sure if I am entrapped in a fight with time dimensions. I can almost see my past when I exhale the smokey hallucinations. I could feel the joints in my wrist, twist and bend and flex to the paperweight of my Marlboro.

The fumes, the heat and the scent, the clouds of strength, the haunting ghost of the Virginia Tobacco, it encompasses me almost – all of me. How do I count the packs I smoke? Especially when my life is a charade of ring around the rosie cycling about the curiosity of nature and God.

It’s almost my Pacific-standard bedtime, tomorrow I have to be in Canada. Again, sorry about your curtain, it’s just that the slight return of old sun’s light, can find the empty pores on my face; like Kojima’s timefall it awakens me timidly. You got a lighter on you by the way? This is the Mecca of my wildest mushroom dreams – so let’s take a hit, we might as well.

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