Mood: Comme-ci, comme-ça.
[Toot!] Index: 0.1
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course
Some girl waded by, and the perfume was giggling behind her. Hard to ignore. For me, they are like that, perfumes. They do things.
A scent could just leap at me and grab my face and maybe run a finger across my upper lip, teasing me with more, yet emphasising how inaccessible the bearer is. And then be gone. Other people smell them. Me, I experience them.
They have personalities. They have beliefs, these scents. They have worries, hopes, dreams. Liberal perfumes, militant scents, deceptive ones, spying ones, Communist ones, intelligent ones. Prayerful ones, yellow ones, perfumes that are thirsty, scents that are fighting a habit, perfumes that make you think this is what the sky must smell like. I remember following my nose, to see where the Catholic scent was emanating from, and I found a lady in full Islamic niqab. Weird. Then this lady, voluptous of bosom, with a stern look about her, whose perfume was a rebellious tomboy teenager. Some time, a nurse was supposed to give me a jab (morphine jab, of all things). And she had an assassin's scent. Beautiful, dangerous, invisible, pseudonymous, irresistible, final. And because of the things I thought, I had trouble letting her land the needle in there. It could be poisoned!
Reggae perfumes, digital scents, speedy ones, scared perfumes, careful ones, tall ones (yet I located it to a rather short woman), African scents, rainy ones, mathematical ones, angry ones, hungry ones, sleepy ones, crying ones, brown perfumes, philosophical ones, good luck perfumes, desperate ones, scents that just broke up, perfumes that are time-barred, ambitious ones, imprecise ones, literary ones, unprepared ones. Et cetera, et cetera. :o)
It's a beautiful affliction.