I smoke seven cigarettes a day. One, on my walk to work. For my wishful thinking. Two, first break. For humanity. The hope that the world will get better. Three, lunch. For my imagination. Those formless ideas and colours. Four, last break. For my anger. At everything. Six, on my way home. For sadness. Seeing other people's side of things messes with your head. And finally, seven, at about 10 p.m, outside my apartment building. For my regrets. Like how I never should have started smoking.
