A pack of cigar

He smokes
Not that he longed for the taste of tobacco on his tongue
Nor that he craves for those fake nicotine in his lungs
And for sure he did not fancy the dopamine released that makes him a little high strung

He smokes
For the abstract feeling of the bud tips
The taction of the cigarette among his fingers, between his lips
For the smooth sensation
Staring blankly, never to pay attention
For every insanity he exhaled
Innocents assailed and peace inhaled

He smokes
Because he needed a time to himself, but not by being himself.

Pure blood. Explains the narcissism.
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