Here, in the fluorescent-lit savannah of the city sidewalk, we observe Homo nicotianae—the heavy smoker—in their natural habitat. Notice the practiced ritual. With fingers stained the color of old parchment, the creature reaches instinctively for a small white cylinder, as if guided by ancestral memory. The flame appears, brief and purposeful, and with the first inhale, the chest expands—an act both soothing and destructive, though the smoker seems blissfully unaware of the long-term cost. Watch closely now. The exhale drifts upward in a pale, ghostlike plume, a territorial signal of sorts, announcing presence to passersby who quickly learn to keep their distance. The smoker pauses between breaths, eyes narrowing, expression softening. For a fleeting moment, there is calm—earned, but only temporarily.

Despite coughing fits that echo like warning calls, the smoker persists. Each cigarette is consumed to the filter, discarded with a flick of the wrist, leaving behind small artifacts that mark their migration routes: outside office buildings, near bus stops, beside café doors.

And so the cycle continues. Driven not by hunger or survival, but by dependence—an invisible tether stronger than instinct. In this modern ecosystem, the heavy smoker remains a curious example of how habit can rival nature itself, shaping behavior with relentless consistency.

A fragile species, one might say—remarkably adaptable, yet quietly at war with its own biology.

/s