Where smoke drifts upward, it folds into the mind—dissolving the line between memory and imagination. In solitude, I drift into daydreams, carried by music, trying to ease the weight of the day, as smoke and imagination merge into one.
The melody and nicotine soothe the ache, as if diverting life’s burdens and weaving abstractions within the mind. Smoke becomes both refuge and companion, turning silence into rhythm, stillness into reverie.
In the ebb of these gentle motions lies the essence of being alone—where even the smallest habits bloom into sparks of creativity.
