They inhale, they exhale. A thick cloud comes out of their mouth, of their throat, of their lungs, of their soul. They see us watching, judging maybe. What are they doing to their bodies? In the landscape of nature, they impose their toxic poison, proud.

They are the smokers, and we are the dulls, the boring and the insipid. In the dense air occupying their space, they huff and puff, unapologetically. The weapon of their crime, the accomplice of their own assassination: a cigarette, a cigar or a pipe. These incandescent objects play the role of a companion. With them, they are never alone.

It gives them allure, they pose and we walk away. They chase us with a unique, inexplicable yet unbearable odour. In love with their addiction, they pursue their day leaving a trail of dust behind them.

Behind the automatic motion of their hand travelling from the hips to the mouth, hides a melancholic mood, desolated eyes, and a broken-hearted life. For them, smoke is a symbol. It is hope disguised in a cloud. Let them have the cloud if they can bear life with it. We will have to find our cloud, our smoke, our poison too.