Smoking Room

Interminable thought.
Always on the brink of mental activity.
Travel halfway around the world for this, somehow laughing.
One brick shoe halfway on, pulls you into murky depths, a pool.
Languid, you move along the edge, slowly procuring stability.
The book on the table snaps her mouth shut, mid sentence.
Walking figures pour into the room like thin wispy smoke.
Boxes on the walls.
Red glare makes eyes look like glass beans.
This is the place the kids go.
They go to this world to feel like what it must be like to die.
The remnants of coin disintegrate into ash.