He lies back in his bed and enjoys the last smoke from his packet. The clock flashes its monochrome smile and tells him that he is now 2 hours past his usual sleep time. He checks out another book from the bookcase, and tries to dig in, drawing smoke in ever greater quantities into his lungs. He breathes out in a sigh of relief as the nicotine craving subsides. He knows the smoking is a bad habit, but he enjoys it so much that he doesn’t mind.
His mind wanders from the page again and he decides that it’s definitely insomnia. There is little to no value in going to a doctor to see about this, he says to himself, and his position becomes enamoured as he thinks well, sleeping is a waste of good time anyway.
It suddenly dawns on him that if it is insomnia, then this last smoke presents something of a problem. He recoils in horror; the cigarette resting between his fingers is the last cigarette. The final one. He glances once again at the clock, this time the monochrome smile has changed to a monochrome grimace as it reads 3.36am. He takes note, and carefully extinguishes his cigarette. He doesn’t know if he can make a half smoked cig last 6 hours. He returns the book back to the bookcase without bothering to alert the librarian and concludes that insomnia is the worst thing to have ever happened to him. He closes his eyes and wishes for sleep, as the craving weights heavily on his mind.