The sweet, slow, silent passage of time. Or, Still Life With Candle

The candle beside my bed was hissing and sputtering. Something must have fallen into the wax and it was sending up little sparks. It was eleven forty-eight. I had just popped a piriton and was smoking. The nicotine and the antihistamine had found each other and blended in my blood, my narcotic intravenous lullaby. In a few minutes I would slip softly into the thirty-fourth year of my life. I blew out the candle so that I could fall asleep in silence. Happy birthday, loser.

(Photo from SridharanVenkat at Flickr)