French Cigarettes

Trails of my footsteps are left in the snow; I look back and see the distance between myself and the surrounding trees. The streets are covered with the slush melted by passing cars whose headlights are like a blinding premonition before they disappear into the tunnel ahead. It is not hard to imagine how strangers, or other displaced souls like myself would go any distance to avoid that dark tunnel; to me- it is as beautiful as the unexpected night that invade daylight eloquently, and rather vaguely, a canvas of reality in which to draw your phantoms when in dire expedition of some small stench of hope.