I hold my cup of coffee as I stand out on my front porch. The snow fell last night. The fresh-coat layers every inch of my lawn and the adjacent street. It looks like the powder of potassium cyanide. The chilled, hushed air wraps my blue skin and vampires my body heat. A car is driving by. The lady in the car has blonde hair that has obviously been dyed a while ago; her black roots show at the top. She waves at me, and I return the gesture (I feel like I know her from somewhere). I set my cup of coffee down on the small, circular, obsidian-like table that is beside me. I reach in the right pocket of my pants, and I take out my pack of smokes. I open the red and white rectangular-prism-of-death, and I remove one of its cylindrical coffin nails. I put the lifeless prism back in my pocket. A toxic cloud rises as the flame from my lighter sears the paper-coated tobacco. The feeling of the soot-filled inhale relaxes my knotted facial muscles. I pick my cup of coffee back up. The juxtaposition of the energy-inducing, dark sludge I ingest, and the complete slowing-of-death I breathe in is an oddly desirable mixture. There is a skeleton-tree in my lawn; a crow is perched on one of its branches. I take another sip and another drag. The feathered creature-of-murder flicks its neck as I mimic a similar mannerism with my cigarette. It watches me and all of my burning, freezer-preserved deterioration. The cold of the morning is growing thicker. The warmth in my stomach and the fire in my lungs are enough to keep me alive through the decaying flesh of this meat-locker-weather. This is a moment in time that I’m sure will be repeated.