(a flash version of the poem of the same title)
I APPROACHED him and asked what he was doing.
"Thinking," he said straightforwardly.
I nodded. I paused, facing the coming breeze.
"Like a puff?" he said, handing me a stick of cigarette and a matchstick in between his fingers.
I grabbed the offer; and though hesitant, I asked him another question. Or rather, questions.
"What connection do thinking and smoking a cigarette have? Can one think without smoking? Or can one smoke without thinking?"
He looked straight and deep into my eyes and said nothing. He puffed his cigarette and contemplated on the smoke that hovered around us like ripples and memories, like a desert full of voice.
