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May 6, 2004
There's a certain grit to your eyes when you've smoked far too many cigarettes – a Friday afternoon spent in a beer garden, the drinks and the smoke and the hours vanishing into laughter and empty conversation, until suddenly the evening has crept across the sky and the air has lost the glowing warmth of when you sat down some uncounted hours ago. There's an empty pack of cigarettes meant to last you a week, and when you slouch into a chair at home, that pleasant ache pressing against your forehead, you can feel the smoke shifting about behind your eyes.