Virein fancied lying in a big lounger, in an unlit room, before a huge LCD screen, his circumaural surround-sound headphones hanging by the skull, a remote in the right hand, a cigarette in the left; he took a liking to smoking with his cigarette dangling between the forefinger and middle finger of his left hand, felt a symbolism in what his shaky left hand finger did to the cigarette, rings of smoke waywardly rising up, much like the cigarette did to the colloids in his head. In darkness, in solitude and in burning tobacco, he sought and discovered repose. Light would bring to fore, malevolent visions, company chaotic emotions and abating cigarettes a fear of being harrowed of his delirious calm.
Awakened by thirst on a dry April night, he stood shaky, rubbing his brows and swallowing his tobacco laden saliva. His sweaty armpits and chest were itchy, and as he ran his fingers through his unkempt body hair, he felt his nails sharp, breathed a puff of warm air around and staggered to the fridge. As he gulped half a bottle of cold water, his body jittered and he sensed his soles burning; he spilled some water and stepped into the puddle and suddenly a wave of youthfulness ran up his stale whole. His one eye opened wide for an instant and a warm tear wetted it, he shut the fridge door, smeared other eye with his moist finger. Now he could see.
As he sat back on his bed, he felt like he was elsewhere before he woke up. He had been dreaming again. Of the faraway hill, the deserted hut with a slanting wooden roof, a creaky door, built of left over planks fastened with rusted nails and wire, which allowed but a steak of moonlight into the room, as Virein swiveled his head to music pouring in his ears and swooned eventually. He had just dozed off in his dream when he woke up. Yes, he could follow the trail.
He walked out to the next room, switched the CFL on and half closing the door behind him again, pulled his cane chair and settled into it with a cushion under his bums. Stretching his legs out, planting his bony feet on the table, he grasped the TV remote and started surfing the channels. The dim light from the adjacent room, lit half the wall in front of him, and that gave him the same eerie feeling as the moonlight in the hut. Leaning to his right, he found his pack of Marlboro lights. As he looked out at the tree through his window, he could sense the breeze playing with the leaves; he stared on for a while and then smoked away.
He made an effort to rise and walk out to the balcony. It was cool outside and the next drag brought him a gasp of pleasure as he wondered where the wind might take his smoke, mix it with scents of flowers in the night sky, odors of decaying bodies somewhere, blue-black smoke from the demons of road at night, the leviathan trucks and perhaps more little wisps of smoke breathed out by sleepy menaces running the menaces. And almost as if the wind clutched his wrist and drove him, he climbed up on the railing and began to imagine to fly, fly in search of his last puff of smoke and the one before that and ran his tongue on his dry lips, musing how it might taste if he inhaled it again with his mouth. In the small grooves in the grill, he fixed his feet and swung his arms wide, a gust of cool breeze hit him in the face.
Gusto!
He could fly!
He knew he could fly!
