The room is full of smoke and dialogue I know by heart. I put down my note pad and cigarettes and go to the counter for my purchase. A dollar is a small price to pay for heaven, with 35 cent refills too. Clutching my prize, I walk slowly to the table of condiments in the back, careful not to spill a single, sacred drop. I doctor my coffee, then return to my seat. I know many of the people scattered around the shop, with a few new faces among the crowd. It matters not. Now that they have found the secret joys of this place, their faces will too soon blend with rest of the regulars. I breathe in the scent of cloves, caffeine, and friends. This is where I belong. I open my journal and start writing.
The room is full of smoke and dialogue I know by heart. It's well after midnight, and I'm sitting on the couch with my good friends, relaxin' and passin'. Someone is playing a game on the TV and there is ska music coming from the walls. The world has stopped, and we have too; stopped caring, stopped crying and stopped regretting. We are all friends, no matter the difference.
The room is full of smoke and dialogue I know by heart. The air raid siren is still going off, and I can hear the sound of small arms fire in the background. My brothers and I are tending to the wounded, silent in the struggle we have grown accustomed to. Bent over the dying, we cry. We live to kill strangers, we die to keep others alive. We know what we fight for...ourselves and each other.
The room is full of smoke and dialogue I know by heart. It's 4:30 in the morning and I've been on the computer all night. Again. Three empty packs of cigarettes mark the time that that has passed. My father comes into the room, getting ready for work.
"Stayed up all night again? What the hell do you do on there all night?"