Away from the city. No cheep-ass common walls through which to suffer the smokable onslaughts of neighbors who don’t deserve their gift of flesh, that thing which I most needed to escape.
Still, the burning.
Smoke. The smell of smoke. Coming through the walls.
There’s no one beyond these walls except for those who know not smokables, beyond that, air, grass, space, the fairly distant outer shells of other domiciles. Don’t tell me I have a brain tumor.
Unless I do.
From time to time, once in the extreme, again, here too, the acrid smell of smoke. If not through walls, then how? Where?
It’s not a brain tumor. Someone else smelled it. Someone not me.
It’s different smoke. Not crack. That’s city smoke.