3.

Smoke. Grey-blue smoke reaching for the roof, for the sky. Thick, solid smoke dancin' around, filling the air around me; floating, dancin' and floating like a sweet drunken girl with her brand new dress. I keep having this dream - call it a bad or a good one, I don't know - where I'm smoking. Last night wasn't any different. I reached for the cigarette slowly, already feeling guilty although I hadn't even light the damn thing. But then I did. And I suddenly felt the warmness of the dense, heavy tobacco smoke penetrating my lungs like a welcome visitor that have been away for too long. I blew the smoke out and felt like I murdered someone. What the hell does that mean anyway? May be all this time I've been going without any smokes; maybe I miss them someway; maybe it's just hard not to. Reading Raymond Chandler it's probably not helping much either. All I can think of it's why wasn't I born during the 50's so I could became a private detective, smoking no-filter cigarettes and sipping whisky while meeting with some hot-shot blonde in a dark alley in L.A. Jesus Christ, What the hell am I talking about? So after I woke up and wondered about all that crap for a while I decided to go out for a run, you know, maybe try to clear my head from all that shit. It probably wouldn't work but I went anyway. I had this strange feeling out there. I kept seeing this crows flying all around me, and they sounded just like a baby screaming in agony, in deep hunger or deep pain, or maybe both how should I know? Anyway, I kept running but my head wasn't getting any better, quiet the opposite, I just kept thinking I was still dreaming, sleeping somewhere far away and dreaming all this. But Jesus, what was reality suposed to be then? Maybe that's exaclty what I can't figure it out no more. Maybe I'm just dreaming again. Maybe I didn't even wake up today. It's all about the days goin' by, one after the other;

one

after

another.