Cold plastic watches me watch it spill over and belch the stinking butts forth. Dollar store ashtrays are always too small. The poison snow flurries a fine layer of asbestos to dust the edges. The last of the living embers trace faint curls of smoke above my homage to terminal disease, my tribute to not giving a f**k. I know. I know that they whisper lies that I know are lies. I let them wrap me in their undulating seduction. In that moment, as I light my next cig, I could almost swear they were telling the truth.