Fingers of smoke reaching into the air, grasping for something, anything to hold onto lest the breeze blow them away and they should cease to exist. The smell of tobacco is intoxicating, and with every inhale it lights up the dark mouth with a red glow as if to justify its own existence, and a fresh billow of smoke drifts lazily out. The embers eventually burn out, only ash remains – tap tap tap – and that too is expelled, replaced by a fresh pinch of leaf. Another match lit, another puff of smoke. Ad infinitum.