It is a recurring dream I have.  My mouth is stuffed full of tobacco and I am gagging and trying to expel the spittle and dig the wad out with my thumb. People are always around and they can't avoid seeing it all. It's more than just embarrassing; it is torture. The dream is now the only time that Tobacco Tom lives again.
Tobacco Tom was the stronger of us two. When Tobacco Tom lived, I would find myself with car keys in my hand asking him where we were going.
"To the store," Tobacco Tom would reply.
"But for what?" I would ask with pretend naiveté and he would mince no words:
"For tobacco, of course."
"But what about our promise to quit?"
"Who cares?" Tobacco Tom would say. Tobacco Tom was not concerned about promises or quitting.
"But what about my health?"
"You'll be fine," he would reply. "And who cares anyway?" Tobacco Tom was not concerned with health.
"Damn it, this drug is killing me. And worse than that I'm an absolute slave to it. We should stand firm on this just out of principle!"
"I have no principles." Tobacco Tom had no principles.
And neither did I -- or at least I could not resist him. I always let him win because I wanted him to. I needed the tobacco as badly as he did.
I tricked Tobacco Tom to sleep with the Patch. He could not resist it for the Patch contained nicotine pure and refined and so beguiled by the only thing he truly loved Tobacco Tom slept and slumbers still.
But I know that the price of liberty is indeed eternal vigilance. I must not slip from grace and light that one celebratory smoke nor tuck that one  harmless  pinch of snuff between cheek and gum. I must never fail in this determination. I must stand forever watchful and everlastingly firm in my convictions lest Tobacco Tom wake and walk again.