Good life

rantaro doesn’t smoke-- he thinks it’s a nasty habit-- but he wishes he did. it would taste awful, he imagines, and destroy his lungs, but hey. he’s already fucking up his body with the alcohol.as things are, he settles for the condensation that comes from his lips in visible puffs, floating up into the light air. good life is still playing in his head on repeat, like a catchy commercial jingle, except instead of reminding him to buy a product it reminds him of what he had and what he destroyed. rantaro closes his eyes and inhales deeply through his nose. he’s been all over the world (to paris, china, and colorado) and he’s drank in so much clean, clear air, yet for some reason he still prefers the ugly, gross-tasting pollution of japan.it’s disgusting, it really is, but there’s a familiarity in that kind of grossness.---rantaro calls his ex.