the downside of having quit smoking: the lamb is sheered... the lamb is skinned - obviously crucified prior... the lamb is cured - the lamb is either poached or grilled... one is expected to choke on an artefact of bone like it were some forbidden fruit... the downside of having quit smoking... the brain says to the mind: i'm not the old, usual-"self" we used to share: it's not suffocating enough... there was once a thrill... a screeching and a scratching... a drowning man hanging to dear life while clinging to a razor-blade... summer is coming with a bazar of scents and other accents: colour... it comes to change my skin from pale porky pink to... imitation greek or roman... yet i have no desire to despair and write: how i don't hug and hello... overtly-draw-lines-of-emphasis of touchy-feely... i came to know... rubbing my hands on gravestones to be... a lost chisel: an "angry" spark... and when so many people have been left in a limbo of a loss... their nostalgia is... a buttoned-up shirt and a bow-tie noose... some idle formality missing... i've sacrificed the suffocating brain... the mind no longer loans itself to a labyrinth of minstrel pressures... there was never a rhyme... nor was there, really: in all honesty... an estate to mind in up-keeping... for whatever this was ever worth... all the better for it... i hope the 81 year old oak of a man doesn't pull the plug and bends his one good knee and makes it justifiable to have himself an exit... otherwise all those words of wisdom about how he quit smoking... how... he should see how that i too could quit... but that i didn't spawn any great grandchildren: for him... well... safe a bet without competition: his son was also put under the pressure to leave him post-scriptum remains akin to my tier of passing time... such old expectations... that the father expects a son to leave him grandchildren... that a grandchild is to leave him great-grandchildren... i just picked up a cigerette... burned the tree... left a stump: an ***** studded ****... i welcome: a new affair of breathing... and re-fathoming the intricacies of a resurrected palette.
p.s. i guess that's like... an inversion / antithesis of the butteryfly effect... which... in a universe built on paradoxes and vacuous growths of dreams for sputnik showdowns... as ever: the terrible has already happened... i was never late to the party... i wasn't going to a party... but... beside: with or without my consent... the party rages.