perfecting the movements

when you stop your ruminations and stare at the ashtray, bleary eyed and wondering if that last cigarette you smoked actually happened... realizing that memory is a fuzzy device composed of snap-shot elements and habitual tendancies slip beneath so many of our filters...

at any rate, i'm rolling another one.

{the finite jester would here like to point out that he rolls his own cigarettes, when it comes to pot he prefers bowls}