There was a thousand cigarette butts lying dead on the floor. Smoke replaces light in the evenings, the only markers for lips waiting to be kissed. Citizens run, counting money, counting the times they forgot their keys inside the refrigerator.
Then all of them stop for a bum. No one denies another of a light. It’s a universal truth that our intimacies remain subtexted in every shared puff. The smokers never wage war.