Xin slid his hand into the pocket of one of his old jeans. It was soothing to feel the packet he searched for in there. He knew he used to be just fine without it, but now Jessica was gone, and he had nothing but his old lifestyle left.
He moved to the balcony of a concrete ledge, square rough edges and a rusty rail, which was his oasis, and he filled whatever space his empty flower pots did not occupy.
Below, the city flowed in its tense way, bustling and honking, but six floors up. He was far enough removed from it to be a passive observer, not troubled by its strife.
Smoke filled his lungs and blankets his mind in rapture, desire and satisfaction. It was his escape. It brought a sweet rush to his fingers as he lit it up and watched as the tube before his lips filled with the white tendrils of burning toxins.
