There is nothing worse than smoking a stoge alone knowing the white paper wrapped around leaves is a Hearse. Dying slowly with a friend feels almost alright but when the smoke billows out at night a locomotive with no incentive you get pensive and wish that cancer would develope dropping you in an early grave. The stench of burning bodies isn't a story with a life lived next to a crematory the sizzle of the cigarette akin to the sound of bacon cooking in the morning. No warning signs from a petered out mind cracked spine causing an acid flash back fluorescent butterflies peek over the guitar strings stinging like beautiful bees while the trees take deep breaths singing "Breathe child...breathe"