Late at night, the smell of nicotine, ashes and bubblegum wrappers abuse our mother earth. Smoke making rings and figures like an Indian healer trying to pursue the wounded. I look at the young women beside me. She is beautiful on impulse I want to draw her. But I don’t, I admire the cigarette she holds in her blue almost lifeless hands. Hands that tell stories of sex, drugs, alcohol, and depression. I observe the fact that this thing that murders looks like a tiny volcano erupting between her fingers her problems arising from the ash. She inhales, exhales, Releasing and taking in what she believes what she’s done who she is and releasing it and starting herself all over again, Reincarnation with the living. We talk of childhood, futures, and mostly death. What do you want to be when you grow up? Her eyes look glossy she trembles from the cold. Waiting for an answer I don’t know what to say. Someone so close yet such a stranger. I laugh silently; I don’t know I just want to write ya know? She gently smiles and nods as in agreement as if knowing I would say that. Knowing so little about me but yet so much. Silence. And you? She looks out into the distance and says with an emotion, a vegan chef. I also nod in agreement also saying I knew she would say that. We sat. The light of the moon illuminating us the smoke coiling above our heads and into our nostrils. Sharing our problems inhaling them but yet keeping them silent. We know were dead already. It’s too late. For both of us. Questions answered on the mystery of a false friendship. She forces herself up looks at me and says quietly; don’t forget to write a chapter about me ok?