There he sat, in that old leather chair.  Shrouded by a cloud of smoke of his own making. A firm grip on his glass, swirling the liquid as if he had all the time in the world. The golden hue of his drink is inviting. He takes a leisurely sip of his drink, allowing time to appreciate the flavour and the warmth that spreads within as it gratifies each corner of his mouth, he swallows almost as slowly.  He doesn’t need to look at the clock; he knows it is soon to be his time. His face is weathered and old and it bears no expression that would give insight to his thoughts. The cigarette in his free hand burns slowly and the smoke from it dances off into the air, making it hard to see.  A thin clear tube traces from inside his nose, across his tired face and over his ears, it is attached to an oxygen machine that inhabits the corner of the room.  He stares lovingly at the photos on the wall across from him, the photos of his daughters and their mother puts him at ease. He is relaxed and calm for he loves them more than can be explained or understood.  A smile settles on his face. ‘God bless my three girls' he thinks, his mouth giving way to another drink. He drifts off into the most peaceful of sleeps and his kind eyes close for the last time.