Don Mann: Focusing on my Craft

Friday, Feb. 13, 2004 - 7:21 p.m.

He drew in a deep drag from his cigarette, and exhaled lazily on this most leisurely of Wednesday afternoons. The smoke curled lithe and shapeless in the air, tiny currents of grey and white mingling in an invisible sea before his eyes. Blinking through the smoke like headlights on a foggy night, the TV illuminated a span of the couch upon which he sat.

The air in the basement was crisp and cool, lacking just enough humidity that it bit at his throat a little with each breath. He cleared his throat suddenly, and the others in the room glanced over to him as if that indicated he had something to say. Disappointed with his response (another deep drag from his cigarette), they turned their attention back to the television which hummed and glowed, radiating media which felt as though it were melting their minds.

The basement was full of people, and yet no one said a word. It was the television that filled the gap of conversation, it patched over the entire room with its squeaky clean personality and perfect image.

He tipped his head back now, his lungs full of smoke which nestled inside of him, and felt the room and all of its occupants slowly tip and fade away. Suddenly it was springtime, the winsome warm air drifting past him and brushing softly against his skin, sweet smells of life and growth wafting to him from all directions, the dainty songs of tiny birds hovering in the air with the insects.

"So what're we doing later tonight, guys?"

The question jerked him from his daydream like a relaxing swim interrupted by a piranha bite. He looked immediately to his left and saw who'd asked it, a glint of loathing reflecting in his eyes. He glanced down at the cigarette, a long white ash dangling haphazardly from its glowing center.

"I dunno." He said at last.

Delve Into The Past - Onward Into The Future