A fine cigar, its weight balanced between the thumb and fingers, the texture as its rolled back and forth, hearing the end being snipped off, the heat of struck match to tip and finally the puff of smoke swirling around your head. Ah, for the pleasures of smoking, nay, enjoying a cigar. There's a certain feeling of being, of having made it, whatever it is, that only a lit cigar can compliment completely.
Sitting under a tall oak, surrounded by the best nature has to offer, enhanced by the savoring of a Fuentes or Ashton or Cohiba. Being dockside, in the early morning warmth, a lined worm being kissed by a young river trout, with a Punch, or Corona, or Churchill tangling from the lips, a set hook is a balanced universe.
A Hemingway or Short Story enlightens any tome. The pages of good books turn so much easier from a perfect ashes glow.
As with anything, to be fully enjoyed it must be in moderation. Smoking is for cigarettes, euphoria is cigars. No two are ever alike regardless the sameness of the box they came in. One an easy draw the other a slow burn, each one a recognition of the craftsmanship that formed their very existence.
To hurry a cigar is sin. A premature stamp out is a vile, abusive injustice, to be permanently etched in the offenders' soul, without a chance of redemption. Setting aside the time to be engulfed in the ecstasy of a cigar assures one's salvation.
So, excuse me now as I hear a Macanudo calling me and I must go.