She likes the menthol sting of her week's first-lit cigarette. Her own lips taste like spear with a spurt of frigid concoction that gallops through her gullet. It usually takes her three redundant times before she can absolutely fire her hand-held baccos. This time, she perfects it. Afternoons have never been this delightful, she murmured.
She inhales, but she doesn't swallow. She breathes without any pleural exacerbation. She is in half-solitude and her other half is in disdain. The future tense ravages her mind as she exhales firsthand vapour. She sprinkles cold water through her tarsals, cold water through her veins. Her brain cells seem to evacuate her insides as she plunges into the menthol sting of her week's first-lit cigarette.
Alas, she can slumber for a while as she waits for him to come home.
Until then, you, my humanoid nicotine,
shall imbibe my very soul in a lovely,
tar-filled trance.
Author
Eяin Heяoin
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Silver-Coated Midst
She likes the menthol sting of her week's first-lit cigarette. Her own lips taste like spear with a spurt of frigid concoction that gallops through her gullet. It usually takes her three redundant times before she can absolutely fire her hand-held baccos. This time, she perfects it. Afternoons have never been this delightful, she murmured.
She inhales, but she doesn't swallow. She breathes without any pleural exacerbation. She is in half-solitude and her other half is in disdain. The future tense ravages her mind as she exhales firsthand vapour. She sprinkles cold water through her tarsals, cold water through her veins. Her brain cells seem to evacuate her insides as she plunges into the menthol sting of her week's first-lit cigarette.
Alas, she can slumber for a while as she waits for him to come home.
Until then, you, my humanoid nicotine,
shall imbibe my very soul in a lovely,
tar-filled trance.
She inhales, but she doesn't swallow. She breathes without any pleural exacerbation. She is in half-solitude and her other half is in disdain. The future tense ravages her mind as she exhales firsthand vapour. She sprinkles cold water through her tarsals, cold water through her veins. Her brain cells seem to evacuate her insides as she plunges into the menthol sting of her week's first-lit cigarette.
Alas, she can slumber for a while as she waits for him to come home.
Until then, you, my humanoid nicotine,
shall imbibe my very soul in a lovely,
tar-filled trance.
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Born in the mid-80s, Erin Herøin is a marveller of non-sequitur writing, cinematic films, & analogue photography.
Before, she used to be an aspiring physician; now, she is a newbie bassist who has 5.50/5.00 eyes & black tattoos on her right arm.
She's the former chief editor of Lomography's international magazine, the founder of Whilst We Wait, & the author of Paranoirexia.
Today, she curates and directs Parallel Planets, an online publication on creatives worldwide.
She dwells in the Eastern border of Manila with her pet pussies.
Before, she used to be an aspiring physician; now, she is a newbie bassist who has 5.50/5.00 eyes & black tattoos on her right arm.
She's the former chief editor of Lomography's international magazine, the founder of Whilst We Wait, & the author of Paranoirexia.
Today, she curates and directs Parallel Planets, an online publication on creatives worldwide.
She dwells in the Eastern border of Manila with her pet pussies.
Fuckin lovely!
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