Smoking is a Waste of Time


I smoked all day, causing silver cloud halos to form in the sunlit corners of the room. Thin tendrils of haze shape-shifted along the ceiling like translucent spider webs lightly lilting on an easy breeze. At hand, the ashtray filled up almost as quickly as the parking lot outside my office window emptied. Four cars left in the span of five minutes and I wished I were in one of them. Hours passed as I slogged through the invisible dust of discarded thought kicking about the room. When the rain arrived, the air took on a blue hue; I exhaled and absently lit up the room again.


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Paul de Denus publishes excerpts from the novels he's never written. This was one of them.

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  • You make the art of smoking look beautiful Paul!

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