The Road.

He sits by the side of the kerb, his arms hugging his knees and his head down. Raising the Marlboro cigarette he holds between the middle and index fingers of his right hand to his lips, he drags the smoke into his lungs with relish. And as the smoke burns its way down the tar-stained passage of his throat, he could almost feel the weight upon his shoulders being burnt away.

He raises his head to the nightsky and blows the smoke outwards in one continuous stream. The light from the street lamps filters through the smoke, turning gray to yellow. He watches as the smoke dissipates into the air, spreading itself thinner and thinner until it's finally gone.

He takes one last drag at the fag, hoping that this one will have the same effect as the last one did. He chokes on the harsh smoke and coughs; the filter has been burnt, letting loose a thousand ants to attack the back of his throat. Flicking the butt away in disgust, he stretches himself out and lies back on the concrete pavement, the grit poking through the thin material of his shirt and causing some discomfort. Shifting about until he reaches a compromise with the ground, he looks up into the dark blue hue of the sky and tries to relax the tensed muscles in his body.

"Counting stars have never been so difficult," he thinks to himself as he scans the darkness for a trace of glimmer.

Then the driver of an oncoming car lost control of the vehicle vehicle, ran over him, and he died with his face smashed in.

Moral of the story: Never sleep at the side of the road even though you might think you're out of harm's way.