Smoke.

You draw in your breath, allowing the toxins to fill your lungs. The repercussions? Untold. Wavering. You exhale the wispy smoke, which dissipates into oblivion, while the faint smell of tobacco lingers on your clothing. Why must you do this in my presence? You know I thoroughly despise secondhand smoke. I whine, whinge, complain constantly and a smug smile finds its way upon your lips. A dagger would do wonders, if you felt no remorse in killing.

I've been going through old files and sketchbooks long forgotten in an attempt to find more of my quote, unquote creative writing. It's terribly written, but my love for the photo (Andy from I See Stars) called for a post. This was written after an outdoor Starbucks session with my best friend, whom I've been trying to convince to stop smoking. My efforts are futile, though; this vice has an unrelenting hold on him.