The Smokers

credits: fleur avenue, little bits and blogs

Sunday morning, a sweater, a hot cup of coffee, and the piles of work I must accomplish this week. At least we have the weekend, my love.

There's a running theme in my apartment: smoking. It's thirty degrees outside but the balcony door is usually open, and the flavor of the day is something akin to roasted marshmallows. Slowly the smokers have crept from the balcony itself to just a few feet inside the door, and then to the couch, curls of smoke lazily diffusing into the swirling vortex of cold outside our toasty haven. Air it out my friends. The truth is, I have no problem with this smoking area, nor with the stream of visitors to which it provides a host. Perhaps it's the comfort of sociality, the "unjudgement" of our hazy atmosphere that speaks to my soul, the steady ins and outs of breathing are indiscernible from highs and lows of life. Glamorize. I understand the vice.