Be it the Nepalese security guard with his hand rolled fags or Marion Cottilard sucking on a Gauloises, the mindless smoke becomes a featureless mask that erases crows feet and smile lines.
There's the smoke that chases you from the burning tip laying in an ashtray. Reminding you that it's there. Waiting for you to embrace it with your lips.
There are the smokers whose scent feels like old mahogany, secrets and warmth.
There are the lovers; raising rubbery tired arms to lipstick smeared mouths to keep the post coital high going till they get going again.
There are the night-owls burning up their years of life for the moment when the dull, hazy high of nicotine weaves itself into the thumping rush of caffeine.
We're all dying anyway. Might as well look cool and feel good while we dance dance dance till absolute entropy.
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