That's a miracle. Creation is real. He hits the arm of the couch with the palm of his hand to indicate its realness. He smiles at you and pulls a cigarette from behind his ear, where it was hidden by long black hair. Words are solid.
Miracles are like smoke.
He lights the cigarette and you don't even think to stop him or say anything. You hear the shower still running. He cocks his head, the long star of his cigarette hanging out over the carpet, waiting to fall. She pays for my food and for my paper. Yeah man, that's a bad trip.