"his head was empty. in the middle of the night, on the stool he sat, moving nothing but occasionally the arm of his for a few puff of the stick. no, he was not depressed. not at all sad. this is the case of individual blankness and the further realization of nothingness of life. nothing, is a superficial word. however, nothing is absolutely wrong with him. perhaps he was confused by everything around him, by in itself, life. the fm stereo aired a poppy tune in the background of his room. his thoughts diverted towards how it is oh-so-uncool to be listening to poppy-jazzy-ish tune but the potential thought of piercing guitars or killer screaming (or moaning) did not fancy him. his mind now debated about the last puff of his. three quarter of it wanted every inch of tobacco gone but the other quarter considered the health factor in its stride. the lad ignored his mind because, heck, there is always another stick to go by. at that, he chuckled to himself. ha-ha. soon, the butt flew out his window and he fell to his bed. he switched on his brain albeit the rusty after-affect of the stick and considered that maybe he ought to get a life. but his life, is of nothingness. nothing, is a superficial word. however, nothing is absolutely wrong with him."