The dimly lit room appeared to swallow the person entire, the one sound being the comfortable crackle of the cigarette between his fingers. He sat hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees, as he inhaled the smoke deeply. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning tobacco, and the faint scent of stale air that lingered within the room.
The person’s face was obscured by the shadows, making it inconceivable to discern any defining options. His eyes, nonetheless, appeared to gleam with a combination of melancholy and introspection, as if misplaced in thought. The cigarette, a skinny, white cylinder, glowed brightly within the darkness, casting an eerie gentle on the encircling partitions.
The room itself was a dingy, cramped house, with peeling paint and light wallpaper. A single, flickering gentle bulb hung from the ceiling, casting lengthy shadows throughout the ground. The air was heavy with the burden of neglect, and the sense of abandonment that appeared to permeate each nook of the room.
Regardless of the awful environment, the person appeared at peace, his eyes closed in rapt consideration as he savored the smoke. It was as if the cigarette had turn into an extension of himself, a supply of consolation and solace in a world that gave the impression to be closing in round him. The smoke curled lazily upwards, disappearing into the darkness like a ghostly apparition.
Because the minutes ticked by, the person’s respiratory slowed, his chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. The cigarette, now diminished to a smoldering stub, was discarded carelessly on the ground. The person’s eyes remained closed, his face a masks of serenity, as if the world exterior had melted away, leaving solely the quiet, peaceable world of his personal making.
