A Cigarette

He took a draught from his smoke and let the ash fall to the ground. He saw constellations in it, floated through outer space, felt small, meaningless and fortunate. He knew.
He enjoyed these moments, said he specialised in them. Pressing pause and taking life in. Fully.
He drew another breath from it and it pressed play. Life rushed by. People walked by, a baby cried somewhere close-by and busses started filling the terminal, space and sound. The moment was over. He knew. He was fine with it; he enjoyed them for their brevity and their beauty therein.