I found an unused cigarette two nights ago and I took it home. I keep it in sight, on my dishevelled desk, among papers and picture frames. Once in a while I take it out of its box, hold it between my fingers, look into a mirror. It scares me that I’m intrigued by a disgusting, dangerously addicting thing. It scares me that I like holding it. Holding it makes me happy. The illusion of smoking it pleases me. I play with it, sniff it and am at once disappointed. I’m curious to know the feeling of smoking despite my resentment toward it. I put it back inside the box. One day I will give in to my curiosity and I will light it.