Scraps of fancy: Vortex

As he sat on his white plastic chair in the corridor of the apartment he lived in with his outstretched legs resting on the parapet, holding a cigarette in one hand and and a book in another, the music from his room flew past him and several thoughts flooded his clouded mind and corresponding images flashed before his eyes. He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew out the smoke slowly, enjoying every bit of nicotine in it. He focused on the plumes of smoke making their way through the trees into the sky until he could no longer see anything but the stars in the night sky. There was a stability and comfort that he derived from solitude. He would kill everyone if it meant he would never die.