My Cardboard Balcony

Duck lit the incense, and we breathed in the fumes, sitting in our separate corners, smoking dope from long, crystal pipes that lit up like fireworks at the end, all neon rainbows and shit. Nearby, Ellie was cooking something on the stove. It probably smelled better than it tasted; I could catch hints of cinnamon, some brown sugar here and there, the occasional stab of hot butter as well, before the sizzling stopped and plates were handed out to anyone who could still keep a grip on porcelain.