Tobacco, that native wonder, became a post-processual deity in the gung-ho modernist revelation instilling precise value to the shadow governed by the economic grove. Enjoined thus, the plant and its mucky muck stooges became billed acreage statistic and a fine Rubicon to feature. Think of farmland making eventual smoke by a process of sublimated craving. In this immediacy, rituals become addictions: were once / now this. Tobacco's broad lush leaf inspired institutionalized number crunch and schemes of characteristic creosote to bargain with. You too can be a target for industry's sensuous bite. Sweet wholesome fragrance secularizes the garden plant's holy mission, and the plant bears the blame. Nothing should surprise you. You understand the stock report and the while for which all this is worth. Those numbers don't lie, but you can learn to adjust.
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