I end up all the way through the late hours of the night, unprepared. I have no energy left and too tired to fall asleep. I make an effort to decide in which direction to settle, which room, which comfort, if any?
Most of them seem indescribable and more trouble than they're worth. And every thought I have about smoking comes out of nowhere. Although I do not smoke, I would be an excellent candidate. I might be a victim of the cigarette advertising in mind only.
For the longest time, I couldn't walk in a city after a rain without thinking of Angelina Jolie. In downtown Toronto, Angelina smoking a cigarette, the collar of her dark raincoat tucked around her chin looking like she had absorbed the rain and fog in the weathered expression on her face, much younger than her thirty-something years.
I might be a sympathetic smoker, if she lights up, I would light up. If she starts talking, and then I will probably chain-smoke. I keep trying to find a photograph of her smoking, but it eludes me like sleep.
Okay, I don't have to make excuses for the thoughts that emerge at 5 am to smoke.