I broke it when the smoke came out. The lamp had no oil, no fire, but it still smoked. The crystal shine still painted colors that existed only in the netherworld. Some sort of pain made its way down into my dark deep soul. I breathed in again, struggling to swallow my thirst, feeding on the hunger that seemed surreal. The smoke came in thicker curls, as if somebody had tried to light it again. I rubbed softly on the cold metal edge of its mouth. The broken pieces fell at my feet and never came back. I was heavy, yet light and damp and dry. I looked through a magnifying glass to collect the broken pieces of iridescence. And that’s when I saw. This lamp had a genie.