Your breaths span the course of hours in your mind—and all around becomes a pale orange. Your steps are imprecise, but necessary—because you are going, gone, far gone from the realm of smokes. Your stomach reels because you are sick, legitimately sick to the core—sick of breath—drunk, perhaps.

You spin and, at once, your eyes focus on a stray lamppost—the most beautiful thing you have ever seen: a dead town in snowflakes that seem like wisps of white on fever—fingers rush whiskey gold. You walk the empty road and are grateful the cars have ceased to come, because you will not stop, cannot stop. You inhale the vapors from the claw—and you are not okay.

You do not realize. You are alone. You are alone. You are alone. You wish to die, but you are scared. You wonder why you have come thus far. You wish to die, but you are scared. You wonder why you have come thus far. You are alone. You wish to die, but you are scared. You wonder why you have come thus far.