His hand shakes just a bit like the maple leaf nervously fluttering in the November breeze as it hangs on barely. Plunging into his jacket pocket, he finds the beginning of relief by grasping the plastic covered box with the angled lid that hinges open so nicely. He manipulates his fingers in and feels the round squishy filter end of the sticks. He gently grasps one and pulls it out. Relief gets even closer as his dry lips embrace the brown paper and the fragrance of pure tobacco fills his nose. But his body won't settle for that even though he wishes he could. He can hardly breathe and his voice sounds like a growling toad when he talks. Snap goes the match head as he pulls it out of the striker strip. The sulfur flare hisses with a blue flash as he tries to steady his hand to the open end of the cigarette. Flaming up, he sucks in with his parched lips until he feels the smoke flowing. Then, he takes a strong pull and breathes it in, filling his lungs with the comfort they wanted, and filling his brain with just enough of a buzz to calm down his shaking hands.