They said that me and my music was irrelevant
You do, occasionally, just look at your feet and think, This is the same old shit every night, Richards has said, and yet he goes on playing and the crowds go on paying, reluctant to give it up, the last link to glory days
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You lean your head back against the pole of the porch, eyes shutting as the grey smoke left your lips, You sigh, lulling your head to the side, subconsciously fidding with the nearly full packet of cigars in your hand, the sloppily written name of Billy across the side, Your eyes slowly rise with tears, dropping the lit cigar into the grass and pressing your boot onto it, pulling your knees to your chest and allowing your head to rest on top, Your teeth grind together, fingers clutching the paper box, and, with a short cry, you lunge the packet in front of you, watching it roll twice into the grass, the cigars spilling and rolling out, "Please," Your eye's pinch shut, sniffling harshly into the night air, and you stand up, fist throwing itself into the wood next to you, Hand rubbing at your now sore knuckles, you jerk open the back door of your house, reaching for one of your fathers beers and locking yourself outside, sinking into the grass to stare up at the stars, one last time A/N

Improve cross-ventilation Clean walls and floors Wash the curtains Clean the upholstery Freshen up the air Lets find out how these ideas will help you get cigarette smell out of your house
Justin Klawans has worked as a staff writer at The Week since 2022