as the day set to a slient still, john took a stick of cigarette out of his bag. a quick strike against the magnesium rod aroused the fuel into a short tower of light, transiting from blue to a yellow tip. john made a swift swerve to allow the tobacco to burn, glowing while grey fumes danced about his evening fix. he inhaled slowly, drawing images of friends trying to persuade him to quit. a sence of trimph caught up with john, exhaling the smoke, obscuring his sight temporary. the moon in the sky start to blur and john tilt his head slightly left, and then right. droplets of drizzle made him smile.
he asked himself, "why the fuck i'm here?"
tears with rain might be a cliche, while smiling with sadness contradicts each other. this is john.
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