Searching in the metal closet of the balcony, next to shoe polishes, under dust cloths, I found the ashtray. Made of clay, a circle, with a curved lip, without a cigarette holder, I had bought it when I was discharged from the army. I always had it in the office, I carried it to the kitchen and from there to the living room. I held it in my hands as if I were holding all the cigarettes I smoked - back when I was a real smoker - I saw all the ash gathered in its depth, smoke rising, a lot of smoke, silent, noisy, intoxicated. I was careful not to let it slip from my hands. Because once it slipped and broke into pieces. I sat down and glued it. I tested the glued joints, solid. I dusted it off, I washed it. Now, after I finish these lines, I'm thinking of smoking a cigarette. P.K.