There’s smoke in our apartment.

Introduced ourselves to the old man who smokes pipe downstairs. He’s lived—and—hoarded in his apartment since 1979. With a pipe. And a cat.

I don’t think he’s left that apartment in years. Through the smoke and dust, there was an amazing outline of our apartment’s former self.

“I just picked it back up a month ago,” he confessed. He put the pipe down on his bookshelf, guiltily. “Another good reason to quit.”

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