Moment of Distinction


Reaching out all by itself the choice of distinction that special moment… The moment of distinction you might say it’s a style it’s a choice it’s a moment of personal satisfaction your choice of brand it’s a moment to savour it’s a style it’s a choice it’s a hallucination… It’s a personal choice it’s the choice that says something about YOU why be ordinary? Am I mad, I wonder, are these really my thoughts? I no longer feel like I am thinking them they’re just repeating in my head on and on, over and over. And I don’t even have a head anymore, I remembered. The moment the choice the smoke of distinction that says something about you you you you you it’s about you it’s about who you are it’s about what you want it’s who you want to be it’s about the way you are why settle for less? It’s a moment for you it’s your time to be who you are. The hand is gone now and all that is left are the thoughts chasing themselves around and around. The thoughts are telling me things but the things they are telling me no longer make ant sense they’re stripped bare of the sense they used to have they’re just going around and around and I can see that they’re senseless. I don’t know what sense is any more, I’ve gone beyond sense I’m having a hallucination I think I reach inside my coat pocket for my fags but they’re not there my fingers close on emptiness, I can feel traces of tobacco at the bottom of my pocket loose shreds of tobacco my fingers brushing against them with tenderness my favourite brand. Then my fingers are gone too, crumbling gently as I try to gather the few loose strands of tobacco together, disintegrating in sympathy a hand appears from nowhere offering me a fresh pack of Peter Stuyvesant Blues freshly opened I’m savouring the fine smell of them slowly so slowly pulling a long smooth King Size cigarette out of the pack, bringing it to my lips… But this is just another hallucination I realize and so am I. That is all that’s left of me now it occurs to me – a flickering hallucination. First it’s the residual body image then the faded residual mental image, the thought-forms chasing each other around and around like so many stripy black-and-white fish in an aquarium. It’s a residual me I realize a residual identity it’s who I was it’s who I am it’s my choice it’s my style it’s my personal expression of the way I am it’s me it’s a brand it’s a unique distinctive flavour that says something so much about the way you are…




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