The Value of A Cigarette

The tall weeds on my left and right were warm and smelled stonge of dust and grass; The kind of smell that takes one back all the way to childhood when your parents or grandparents would drive you into the country for the day. Remeber?
I lay in them, I feel them under me - under my back and legs. The ground beneath the weeds is seeping its heat and to me feels oddely familar in this completely unfamilar place.
I have been here only two or three days and have had to look for and take solitude at all opportunities. There are many of us and space is slim. Though as bizzare as it may seem, no one prefers the tall grassy area in the back!

I've my head proped-up with my helmet, my legs are crossed, and my eyes are cast on the horizon just as the sun starts rolling off.

I reach into the breast pocket of my shirt and feel the soft packet of contentment. Two left. The pack is flat and the milage is displayed on the pyramids on the back.
I put my chin to my chest and shake one of the two remaining out just enough to grasp with my chapped lips. The pack is returned into my pocket in exchange for the book of matches ... ignite, light, inhale.

My right hand finds its place on my chest and I stare at the smoke as it coils from the end of my escape from this mess.