There is a particular olfactory genius to being alive. In an instant, we are reminded of the obscure, connecting fragments of our lives.

Intricate, complex, and so deeply embedded in our personal histories is the art of smelling.

Perhaps with less intention than reason, we collect scented moments, pressing them into the tallow of our minds. A spark of illumination from where it’s hard to say and a distant memory thought to be forgotten floods our senses like a newly lit candle.

Time travel has always been a greatly anticipated advancement. Its mastery, the penultimate control over what we humans can never seem to accept- inevitability.

I’m inclined to believe that smelling is the closest we’ll ever get.

The door is open. The curtains are set adrift by a dry grassy breeze.

How did it go again?

“To lie in my bed and let vines grow around me

Might be rather nice

But because I find self-pity loathsome

And often boring

Perhaps the vines ought to have thorns on them

Whenever I’m determined to be foul

And lay out a scene most enticing

I soon find the whole thing incredibly droll

Me, a painting I can understand

In this museum of solitude

So, as soon as I’ve resigned to a life of lethargy

I clip myself out of the weeds

And search for something more interesting

In truth, I am searching for a place I’ll never get back to

A room where I am tucked in

Where fish swim across my ceiling

And voices hum upstairs

The loss of it all is what sends me to bed

The same bed, somehow the wrong bed”

Oh yes, I remember.

I never forgot.