The poured concrete steps, rough by design, are glazed with rain, evened out by nature. It's two AM, and I have yet to start my Kernel analysis assignment. A passing car tears through the watery street-skin, shaking and reforming the street-light reflections behind it - the world is too fast for an analog mindset. I reach into my shirt pocket to retrieve the laminated packet of Sampoerna Milds, flip it open and retrieve a single cylinder of toxic goodness. The match flares up, wood is incinerated and tobacco starts glowing. I close my eyes. The first drag makes the sound of a needle hitting a record, a type of analog scratching. My mouth, slightly dried out, is filled with a taste of southeast asia slightly tainted by sulfur - but that soon subseeds. I exhale, forming my first cloud, watching it dissipate in the humid wind. Another drag, another bit of tape hiss.

Smoking is the adult equivalent of blowing bubbles. Still frowned upon indoors or around people who are "above it." More dangerous, certainly - but one can see so much in the smoke, hear so much in the burn. I sense a world long passed away.

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