'A Faux Minima'

He juxtaposed the cigarettes in the case which he had found neatly - there were almost twenty. Through some unexpected gusts, he breathed in the aroma of cloves and was momentarily lost to its scent.

The entertainers for the dead had just started their repertoire (and latter parts of the performance would be overheard by him), as it was the common fashion there, during the Hungry Ghost Festival.

He lit himself a stick and inhaled now, slowly letting the smoke slide messily out from his mouth while he walked past the remains of the house where once a druggie was found dead. Of all places, it was near a school and a church. Sanctified. All the while the reasons and thoughts grew, expanding itself unto his mind, as if he were the thoughts and not the thinker. It accompanied him with each step that he took till he came upon the crossroads - where monoxide and monoxide met; one from man, the other: machines.

He studied his right palm before crossing the street, his lines were still visible - the lines in which formed a shape of a diamond. It had been a year now since he discovered it with the help of a stranger, but it was still there, intact and very much visible. It was also told that with it - he would have a great future.

But now he was nowhere.

Then a car hit him.

( _")