He watched the snail slowly slime its way over the wet wood chips. He thought of the miniature golf course he used to frequent with the messy lipped girls of his elementary school. He thought of the last time he saw the miniature golf course. It was now on a vacated lot, with springs of weeds and piles of the foliage's debris consuming its livelihood. The cement, which he thought would remain forever, was cracked and hued in an emaciated shade of yellow. The trees and its crass branches looked down disapprovingly at the course, and the wind, in its foul-mooded prankish disposition, swept some of the leaves away only to moments later deliver a fresh batch of the rust-colored leaves. He asked the snail where it would go when he left. Before the snail could answer, a small white stub dropped down from the balcony above. He waited for the sound of the slide door to inhale and exhale, before he climbed into the wood chips to investigate the white stub. It was a cigarette, still burning, with a little life still left in it. He scanned the neighboring windows. They were all blinded. He smoked the rest of the abandoned cigarette, squeezing the filter during his last drag. He threw the cigarette onto a neighbor's porch, observing the tiny red tooth of the cigarette, glowing weakly. He descended from the wood chips onto his own porch, looking down while doing so, to observe the squashed remains of the snail.
