The natural inclination is to feed off one's environment, and in an unnatural world with ironing boards and shopping trolleys, it's only natural to seek unnatural vices for natural ailments. In the natural world we first soak it in rainwater before applying fresh aloe vera gel to the wound and binding it with banana leaves. Fire is crafted to life by human hands of which are held, steady palms to flames, for warmth, because Eve doesn't have gloves and Adam doesn't have a gas heater. Because beneath their skin and throughout their blood, within their beating visceral roots of bone, lives their own flame - the most pure and primal instinct of them all - the instinct for survival. And it shivers on their wet tongues as present in their minds as saliva is to gums.
In the unnatural world a curious dulling of the senses, of the instincts, of the notion that a human is a beast of a beastly variety, impels a man to reverse himself; to trudge down a cracked and dirty footpath towards a perculiar self-destructive realm, where self-destruction becomes constructive in itself, where the two parallel in tempestuous swells, swimming and grinding and coerce a man to defy himself; to defy his ancestral core. And this is where he smokes. This is where he drinks and drowns, a luxurious tavern of the soul. This is where he beats himself with thobbing, pounding paws.
And this is where I smoke. Where I nest at night with white noise. Where I empty out the pockets of my brain, or peel the paint from the walls with my eyes, waiting, listening for something to arrive. And it all gets washed up into an unjust ending of nothingness.