Her eyes glistened with greed as she stretched out her pale hands. A golden ring on her finger was the only colour that broke through the smoke. Smoke that slowly engulfed her hand, nesting itself in every crack of her skin. Her index finger and thumb balanced the joint ever so delicately.
The glowing fire crawled up further along the paper with every inhale she took. While the leaf burned away, ashes remained. White, crispy flakes of burnt paper and a drug that was far too easy to come by. A smile began to spread across her face, replacing her stiffness with an uneasy calm and eagerness to forget. Looking down at the thin, rolled up paper in her hand, every barrier that she had every put in place to control her thoughts, broke down. One after the other. Until there were no more controls. No more boxes to allocate ideas and no more logical, separate strings of thought. Instead, her freshly cleansed mind constructed a web, stringing all thoughts in one endless, new mesh.
Her eyes bore deeper into the end of the joint, where the fire devoured the contents of the rolling paper and spat out dust and smog. She could hear the crackling as the paper first began to glow, then turn black and then all that was left were ashes. The more she smoked, the more the paper burnt away in front of her and peeled off until grey snowflakes danced to the floor. Each inhale revealed a new layer of ashes, like a flower whose most inner petals could only be seen once the outer ones were plucked off. It was a white rose that only existed as long as you smoked.