If you remember nothing else of my ramblings, remember this: It doesn't help to put perfume on a skunk. With that silliness, I close the day.
Air is often filled with frolicking scents, sudden and fleeting, layered, that bring back gladness or sorrow.
Stink: the whistleblower of a neglected house.
In Spring, the earth smells of promise, in summer - flourish, in fall - fatigue, and in winter - death.
When it rains, the house is often haunted by olfactory ghosts of old experiences.
It is impossible to look good if you stink.
When the smell of digested food fills the air, the scent of an air freshener is little more than a hissing-rather-than-booming, second affront.
I have no desire to “walk a mile” in another person’s shoes. Mine are smelly enough.
Across the garbage heap, the wind was a great breath blown, violent with rejection, enough to set lungs to barking, coughing.
He drank too much, smelled like dark secrets marinated in alcohol.
I wonder if stink is sometimes a tool used by reclusive people to keep others away.
Odor makes hiding impossible.
The smell of a burning cigarette is like the barrel of a gun, shooting me back toward a lost love.
Once I smelled Polo on the street and followed (for three blocks) a man who must have been at least 90 years old.
I've made my share of bad choices, but most not because I didn't know better, rather because it was so darn much fun. Laughing, I just hung them out there on the line, and let the wind take the stink out of them.