because nothing is really
mine,
so I sit here
with smoke rising
to my left,
where the mood lighting
is shining
in the little ceramic lamp,
and I hear the sounds
of the television in one direction
and the hum below me
and the gentle traffic
outside,
so this desk is green wood
and sort of messy,
but sort of not,
and here in the black vinyl chair
I remember meditating,
as my cigarette
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