scents raze there are smells that transform when they travel. a box no bigger than a human hand holds a bar of soap's dying dream. what's sweet up close grows sinister the farther it drifts from your face, until an entire floor of your home is thick with the pith of its oppressive perfume, urging you to search for a nonexistent chemical leak or the husk of some strange animal that rots in reverse. 240816 ... Soma There's a french dresser in my room. It's completely wooden with beautiful curves and an ornate mirror that slides into a steel bracket on the back. It was refinished in black some years ago – years before I found it on the street, with a "FREE" sign taped to it. The black paint is still in disrepair from whoever owned it last. Dents and dings allow the oaken warmth to peek out and the glued felt on top is just slightly peeling at the edges. But the bones of the dresser are good. She's still beautiful, and one day, "one day" I say, I will refinish her. While she bides her time to be beautiful again, she carries my collection of scents across that peeling not-quite-velvet. Tiny treasure chests of varying shapes, colors, and sizes are piled across her. They carry the treasure of memory, stored in scents. Inside each are small, miniscule "imp" type vials of various perfumes and oils. No two are alike. A tiny white label adhered to each indicates the day it was used. The memory to which it matches. With them, I can harness the most elusive aspect of memory. Scent. But not every memory has a scent. Not every moment can be planned for, so I'm not always wearing a unique perfume. But many do, and it never fails to whisk me away to that time with but a whiff. 240818 what's it to you? who go blather from