IRC-Galleria

Between the freeze-breathing trees, the moisture scented heaven, just sit there. I sit and stare into the coal black sky. It's dark, that even the imagination can not see where my hand, what applies to my toes.
"Smoking kills" - managed to read until a packet of cigarettes from the paper patient prior psychological weapon. Kill kill and in no way trying to murdering ... Conscience poke its nose, but like angry lady goes back to the outermost Being my nook.
Quiet again. Again, each lung alveolus it clever Inca priests wandering clouds catching the holy smoke.
Flows of smoke upward and hits the wet, still observing the leaves in the trees. I'm watching them. Gradually, the brightness of a free hand smoke clouds.
Slowly lower down to your eyes and inflated by the smoke .. Surrenders .. Died.
Do not speak ...