Saw a kid smoking outside a bar today. Wanted to tell him to stop but let him. His life isn’t a bed of roses, waiting outside to bring dad home. Slipped out to check email undisturbed. Did it while looking at a tea shop window. Nobody saw. Ceylon tea, the far east. Lovely there I imagine, floating on a lotus. Drifting. Those snaky lianas of the satyr man. Vishnu dreaming just before he. I wonder if it is like that, dolce far niente in the sun, sleeping half of the year away. Lethargy. Heat brings it. Idleness and flowers fed by the air. The azotes of the alchemists, nitrogen the food of the plant and the stone. Azoth they called it, Azotos in Greek, the lifeless air. Used it as code for the quintessence, the thing of all things. And for the fire of the kundalini serpent coiling up the spine. Feel that slow burn. They disguised it as a dove, sometimes, and silver rain. In darker moments the regicidal son stepped in front of it so only they knew what they were talking about. Also a whip for flagellating the naughty. Oh you bad boy. A nitrogen whip for sensitive plants.