Untitled

Inhale. The smoke rises with the morning sun. One more in a series of days that ends when it should be beginning. This isn't the answer. Grain alcohol fused with the sweet carcinogenic kiss of nictotine should sweep the insomnia away but it just slows the wasted moments. Inhale. Stuck between the laissez-faire existentialism consuming each passing minute and the naive dream of making a difference and cherishing each second, he dies with each breath. Time goes on; life passing by with a slow burn that won't speed up but will never stop. Somewhere in the middle of dream and reality, the end so close he can almost touch it, he realizes that this is it. This is all there is. No more, no less. There is no going back. Alea iacta est. Exhale.