Smoke

From down below. The dusk awakens. Sneaks through the clouds, in between the cobblestone and roots. Its wounds transformed into memories, long sewed by the tissue of flesh and blood that repaired its structure; but once again fresh, open and dripping blood, a pierced hole afflicted with the poisonous strain of the past. The neon sign flickers on and off, a snapping sound constant, rhythmic. Lungs full of warm light smoke, a fresh scent of mint and lavender; it floats up and seeps through windows and doors.

“When was the last time?” Someone asks it, as it leans against the wall and inhales the smoke with its black lips deep into his ribs and lungs, the stars on his head sparkling bright.

“Hey. Did you hear me?” They insist.

It turns back to them, eyes of unreadable emotion full of profound absence of light. “Is it even remotely relevant? It does not matter. I am an amalgamation of setbacks and progress, I shall not be measured.”