Words come to mind, but often all a jumble.
A word search, really, with no grade school clues given on the side.
Easy words to discover amid the jingle jangle jumble.
But the reason for the words sometimes escapes me.
Or can escape, Medium-like, with a sip of that.
Or a hit of that.
Or, good god, please, a puff of that.
Swirling, beckoning, enticing, the siren that is a suicidal, with much purpose, smoke.
Swirling and curling and tentacles reaching into nostrils and lungs missing the sensation of that suicidal, with much purpose, smoke.
Days weeks months years pass.
Tracts laid long ago open with memories exploding as the body remembers.
And the mind works to forget.
But in working to forget, remembers.