It's 3am. Everything was quiet except for the slight hum of an electric fan's motor.

He took a drag of his menthol cigarette, the long, icy trail of smoke slightly burning in his throat. He wondered how he ever got into smoking these. He used to like lights. The ones that taste like ordinary paper. Distracted, he contemplated on why he started smoking anyway.

He doesn't remember.

He dismissed the thought, took one last puff, and extinguished the stick on his overflowed white ceramic ashtray. He looked at it in disgust. He always forgets to empty the damn thing until it's too late. The bits of ash scattered around it was proof enough. A testament to his lethargy, his indifference.

He hated the feeling.