a cigarette dangling from her fingertips. staring at the plastic bag across the street, flapping; attempting escape. it's funny how we are all yearning for the same thing, she muses. taking a drag, she holds it in for far too long. exhale. even the tendrils of smoke yearn. she tries again, holding her breath until her unconcious persuades her otherwise. if even that, the parasitic, the addictive, won't stay with her, what will?