The whispy cloud expelled from my lungs after the particles have dug their way through every sliver of my bronchioles. Recycling in its blackest form.
My least favourite thing about smoking my third cigarette:
The bastard midgets that collect at the back of my throat with every inhale, making me swallow hard to keep from coughing.
All in all, something to be savoured only on nights of particular frustration at work.
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