Sometime between my very last cigarette, and my very last cigarette, I placed the crux of it between my thumb and forefinger: I held the idea, drew circles in the air with it. I held you in mid-air, controlled like a fine blade: like a finely-balanced, exquisite tool, a scalpel. Drawing it across its own arc of motion to form an anatomy. Imagine the curvature of a straightened arm, and the context of an affectation is pose. Brought to relief, by transposition.
This design kept you for a while – kept you in diagrammatic exactness between breaths, between inhalations, between the smoke rising and then becoming a clear sky all above me. I drew you, and it pleased me. The very form of it was purposive, delineated and precise.
Even after I stubbed you out I would remember the vertices and surfaces. They came from the mind, and the mind kept them: I had traced you before I had even discovered the real presence of it. I traced your curves with my finger across the lip of a coffee cup. I weighed the fullness of it, in each gesture of my hand. So it was that I maintained you. Though you – whatever you are – could hardly know it, I had sublimated the very flesh, the bones, the heart of you. It was true representation.
In this way, I perfected you. The idealized is significant. The thought-of form need not exist, and I dwelt upon it.
So that, even after I had stubbed this out, trails of you outlined the insubstantial air about me.