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“You remind me of Basquiat, when it comes to the drugs, not the art. And your hair is a bit more tame”Her fingers do a waltzand hand me a cigarette.I pull the matches from my esophagusand attempt to inhale.The coffee tableunderneath our feetbegins to breathe.It hates whenever we fumigate.Second-hand smoke is really a holding cell.She looks at her favorite wall and imagines a window. “If you we...