Imagine… an England where people who are wicked in thought or deed are marked by
the Smoke that pours forth from their bodies, a sign of their fallen
state. The aristocracy do not smoke, proof of their virtue and right to
rule, while the lower classes are drenched in sin and soot. An England
utterly strange and utterly real. This is the world of SMOKE.
I don’t know if you’ve ever felt like that. That you wanted to sleep for a thousand years. Or just not exist. Or just not be aware that you do exist. Or something like that. I think wanting that is very morbid, but I want it when I get like this. That’s why I’m trying not to think. I just want it all to stop spinning.
Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower