2 minutes read | 3 hours work

I drink coffee and slowly finish my last cigarette in my life. Perhaps. Because I still have an emergency one in the work drawer. In case – if something happens. In my head I write a farewell post that I will never send to anyone. Because there were cigarettes with me. They were bored with me, cried, listened to my favorite songs, danced with me more than one night at my flat, they tasted the best after dinner and sex, that they just burned out in the ashtray and they disappeared in loneliness, that I spent a pleasant break with my colleagues, that wine somewhere on the terrace tasted a little more, that the people hated me for the cigarette smoke around me, that they looked at me crookedly, gossiped about me that I stink to someone, that they were here with me, in good and in bad.