Stepping out of the airport, after flying a third of the way around the world, crunched up and folded tight in a metal box of dried out processed air.
Late at night, when waiting for a bus, watching shred of clouds skim across half a moon.
Hunched in the corner of a darkened pub, when waving hands around, making patterns with smoke in the beer-scented air, to emphasise a crucial point that will be forgotten in the morning.
Bashing away at a typewriter, when your fingers glow with the pressure of a steam of words, and the flakes of ash scatter across piles of paper, and you watch the smoke turn blue in the afternoon light.
Drinking your fourth espresso, when perched on a shiny metal chair, twisting a sliver of lemon zest onto the dark surface and peering across the street to mock other people's fashion sense.
When leaning against a wall, waiting for something to happen, waiting for someone to arrive, waiting for someone to give you news you are not sure you want to hear, with your hand shaking slightly as you tap the ash to the ground.
When sitting on the grass in a dark garden late at night, and the glowing ember is the only source of light other than the half-clouded over stars that struggle to show in the purple-orange sky.
Tangle-sheeted, in candlelight and a sheen of sweat, when the cigarette is lit in a pair, and you feel like Bette Davis and the world is sweet with exhaustion.