I have a thousand paths, but only one is true, I’ll twist your sense of direction and swallow up your view. I am built to lose you, though you seek my very core, And if you find the center, you must look for me once more.

I hang over industrial cities, A cloud of progress and despair, As dark as tar and as toxic too, Don't breathe when I'm in the air My name is a portmanteau involving smoke, Which tells you all you need to know, I hang around when the sun is out, And keep the air quality index low

I am a cluster of rooftops, a collection of fires, Born long before cities or towering spires. I am bound by a community, small and close knit, Where everyone knows where your family sits. Larger than a homestead, but a city I am not.

A wind-shifting overlook. Or a rather spicy book.

What state does the hippie’s wife live in?