the scent of far-off lightning, something wild in their souls.
the smell of new metal, like that of a penny, but sharper. nothing is quite as biting as your mordant wit.
the smell of wind over empty concrete. moving air always smells different in the heart of the city, passing critically over the stratified structures.
the smell of the soul of an old book, the secret scent deep within the inner recesses of its pages, worlds that most people never reach.
the smell of a bonfire on a smoky country summer night. if life is a bonfire, jump over it, whatever the outcome.
the smell of a well-loved musical instrument, abandoned or new. The scent of something well-used to being possessed by creativity.
the smell of old appliances, the jackknife he got when he was 10, the swiss army knife she got when she was 8, and have never left behind since. the smell of the veteran of hundreds of jury rigs and macgyver moments.
the smell of fireworks that hangs in your nostrils long after the noise is over, reminding you that when a few outbreaks finish, it solely means that the next round is just around the corner.
the smell of the metropolis, steel pillars and skyscrapers, the most orderly and complex places in the universe. never confined to one level, always moving up, chasing the sky. will always stand at the top, in the end, and turn away with the realisation that it is all meaningless anyway.
the smell of crisp tuxedos, luxurious wine, cultured, carefully crafted, and only found at the top of shelves.
the smell of clean linens. the smell of a house before the painters and interior decorators have their way, where all is clean, delicate lines etched in echoey silence.
the smell of brownies and open windows, letting it spread over the neighbourhood, diluting it slightly but filling it with all the other scents that you call home, joining them together in peach and harmony over the heads of laughing children.
the smell of new wood mixed with the burning touch of the saw, cutting two-by-fours into house extensions, spreading efficiently into the carefully clipped lawn.
the smell of no-smell, when the world is lost to you, and you to it, soundless, sightless, scentless, senseless, sprawled in whatever position the mood took you, wandering in a world of your own.
the smell of thumbtacks, sharp like your nature, but papery and useful, holding up the dreams of dear friends and family, maps of far-off places tacked to corkboard walls, lost dog posters printed by the hundreds, the hopes of people, who are oh-so-much more important than we think, held up by thumbtacks, a subtle aroma rising to accompany the sound of the ripping of plastic prison.
the smell of a fire crackling comfortingly in the fireplace surrounded by cosy armchairs and subtle, but numerous, plates of cookies. while the winter goes it is wild way outside, love and stability reign by the fireside.
