But does this self-indulgent side of me truly want to be missed? Yes, it's very nature is that: greed. I give into it easily. I pity my ability to feel sorry for myself.
And yet the sounds of this known street comfort me in that very strange and lovable way. Though alone at this moment, I am bound by the love of this street. Never totally free.
I wonder why I have nothing to say, yet so much to write. Is this a defect in my personality or a boon of a past life? Perhaps in the smoke an answer will emerge, magically. I think I forget how close I am to it.