Just the fizz of a cigarette for company and the scraping of a few brave leaves across the concrete, going it alone.
Myriad creatures could surround me but don't make thier presence known.
Bereft of violence, my thoughts have room to stretch thier aching legs.
Afforded the opportunity breathe.
Not stifled under foot, like a cigarette but inhaled.
Exhaled, not impaled upon a cork board.
For future me.
The thoughts are a gift for the present.
Is this what heaven is like?
I sincerely hope so.