Then I saw the alley, caddy corner to the parking lot. Where else was I to go? Stumbling over the brick paved streets, I surveyed the scene. Not a soul to be found in any direction. I inhaled again, about to unzip my fly, feeling as though I would soon wet myself, when I looked up and saw the face of a great spirit. Stark orange with all-seeing blue eyes, the face sat on the tail of a shooting star of gold, and his ever watchful gaze was on my every move. I was reminded that this alley was neighbor to a local art gallery, and this gallery would often hang pieces of work for the public to behold. Although I was aware of this, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this piece of work was not placed at the will of a curator, but by poetic fate. It declared loudly for the streets to hear, “This place, where the serfdom of human kind is likely to urinate and defecate, is under the ever vigilant eye of the universe.” It was as if God himself was hanging over the shadows. Of course, I could not disrespect it. I had to wait for the proper time. I gazed further down the wall and saw the brother of the face. Twisted and fearful, he lurked in the shadows, preying upon the weaker ones who dared to venture deeper into the darkness. He was staring at me and my smoking cigarette. It was difficult to ignore the steaming feeling of judgment that was raining down with its gaze. This is where good and evil both dwelt, in the catacombs of the November streets. It was here that I inhaled again. Nearly burnt all the way down, the smoldering filter had little to give. Bidding farewell to the ominous faces of the brick paved alley, I strolled back to the car. Tight between my fingers, I held what was left to my lips, and allowed it to cascade inward. At 12:23, I stepped on my cigarette.
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