2012
I turn my corn cob pipe slowly, my thumbs working the shredded tobacco leaf ever so softly into the blackened bowl. My hands still have slight gleam of almond oil on them, just like my chin and my cheeks; I can still feel the slightly pleasurable tingle my safety razor left on my face. Smooth as a baby's bottom, as they say. My mustache received only a slight trim: a few rogue hairs now lie pacified in the sink beneath my mirror. The bowl is packed. Matches. Always with the fucking matches.
