Actually, I perfume whore - except powdery scents, any color, any note - yes, yes, and even starushachy "Opium", you at it I do not sniff! Not Frau, but Femelle fatal.
But my secret love has been and remains the smells, distant from the world of perfumes, for example, the smell of gasoline, as thin as a ribbon, a transparent, fading like a morning dream.
Each week, fill-snorting and sniffing gently quivering nostrils, so that poor girl did not think. Or the smell of wet concrete as this summer, after weeks of dry heat in the metropolis, and suddenly shed grace - and a heavy gray steam hisses, mixed with dust, with the wind, and warm and wet concrete, alive. But the smell of fresh sawdust - it's all a kick in the ass in the direction of absolute happiness, somehow makes him the last vestiges of decency, and I hide in the pocket of fresh wood chips, a bitter-sweet, wrenching inside.
Glue on the back of the stickers - for some reason smells like chicken soup, why not?
The smell of washing powder, yes, golimaya massmarketa chemistry, I do not use it, but in the direction of a neighbor's laundry drying on a rack doing abruptly watchdog, sensing the cat within reach. From the smell of powder house and confidence in the future. Sour, melancholy smell of rusty iron is uneven, as if to say something or to live, and so it did not, and now start again late, and throw all the sooner. Well, any more.
I Know I Can To Fly
Intersting
Something Like That
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