A friend of mine is a smoker. When I visit him at his place, there is cigarette haze everywhere. I see him through an acrid shroud and wonder why he does what he does. Why he smokes so much, and drinks every night till he's drunk. Sometimes I want to ask about his pain inside, but there is a bitterness in his words when the questions get too close. I visit him and enjoy his company as best as I can, till things get too sad. When I leave his place, I wonder often about his mysterious youth, if he comes from pain and sorrow since he never talks about those days. So he takes a last drag and turns a bottle one last time. Good-bye my friend, I'll see you soon.