The dimly lit room was shrouded in an eerie silence, the one sound being the comfortable crackle of the cigarette because it burned between the person’s fingers. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke, a pungent aroma that clung to each floor like a foul omen. The person sat hunched in a chair, his eyes fastened on some distant level as he inhaled deeply, the smoke curling up in direction of the ceiling like a ghostly tendril.
His face was a map of traces and creases, etched into his pores and skin by years of fear and stress. The cigarette gave the impression to be the one factor that introduced him any consolation, a fleeting respite from the troubles that weighed him down. As he exhaled, a plume of smoke wafted up, casting a faint glow over the darkened room. The shadows appeared to writhe and twist round him, like residing issues, as he sat there, misplaced in his personal non-public world.
The room itself was a dingy, cramped area, with peeling wallpaper and a stained carpet that appeared to soak up the faint gentle that filtered in by the dirty home windows. It was a spot the place time appeared to face nonetheless, the place the surface world with all its troubles and cares was shut out, and all that was left was the person, the cigarette, and the darkness. As he smoked, his eyes appeared to glaze over, his ideas drifting away on a tide of nicotine and despair.
Regardless of the grim environment, there was a way of calm in regards to the man, a stillness that appeared to permeate each fibre of his being. It was as if he had given up on the world, and was now content material to easily exist, to float by the darkness, misplaced in his personal non-public hell. The cigarette was his solely companion, his solely buddy, and he held onto it tightly, as if it was the one factor that stored him grounded in a world that gave the impression to be spinning uncontrolled.
