I can smoke till lose the control of physical reality, going through the lungs to arrive into the heart with a well-aimed knock of polluted smoke.
I could even going to the place were dreams mixed with weeds are made. That's why I put sand into my pockets, I don't want to go flying with confused words. All you have to do is blowing some air and the balloon will burst and be thrown through.
I'm not going to die because of cancer today... although some morphine will be great for the soul's damage.