dissonance

It was a smell of something inedible and that was why it wafted past his attention.

The smell of things you can’t eat.  They stop you short.  Like coming up to a brick wall.

The smell of poison, another thing altogether, closes the lungs down, makes you realize you are an organic, biological, needs-propelled being.  The green gray of seaweed and cells, of modern art, of blank survival, and your determination to live, swims over you, as you look for a way up, a scuba diver disoriented out the mouth of a cave in the archipelago of normal.

The sweet smell of pines, fig trees, warm flint, and a monastery under an alpine sky.

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