"Who am I?"

Smoke rose from his cigarette as he was staring at the bookshelves in front of him. All that knowledge, all that ancient wisdom. He read it all. But nothing remained in his mind. The lines were running before his eyes like ants srtuggling to live even when he was sober.

He even tried to write. And when he finished, it seemed to him that his work was better than any Shakespeare, Alexandre Dumas, Lord Byron or Oscar Wilde.

His hair was always stuffed with smoke. Nothing could separate him from his love for cigarettes, the only thing keeping him alive except for alcohol those days. He didn't do other drugs. He had enough mind to stay away from them.

"Where is she?"

He knew true love didn't exist. But he wanted it so much, that he would have died for it. His only weakness, or so he thought. He didn't love that girl. What was he waiting for?

"What is love anyway?"

His love for her was different than his love for cigarettes and alcohol. His love for her was different than his love for his mother. His love for her was different than his love for books. His love for her was different than love itself. He didn't love her.

He stood up from the black velvet armchair and walked towards the window. He lit up another cigarette. He was fascinated by them. How they were consuming in his hand as he was consuming in the hand of destiny. And then he realised. Every time a cigarette reached its end, he could have another one. And another one. And then another pack and he could start over again.
But what will happen when he dies? Will he return again? No. He was sure of this.