Day 663 April 26, 2022
Buried Treasure Today smelled like an old photo album, the one with the glue pages, the cellophane sheets that peeled apart like lightning. Today also smelled like cigarette smoke and someone else’s sweat. When I walked, it felt as if water was seeping into my shoe, the rain at once falling and not falling, raining and not raining. I wanted to call you, but I did not have your telephone number. I wanted to thank you, because sometimes we just want to be held. Everything is a mirage you said, and I agreed except by then everything had faded and I could only see people, their arms, their legs, no faces. They say all smells are memories, that every scent evokes the lived experience of other scents and there is no such thing as a disembodied smell. We remember with our noses, I might have said. And if I had, you would just stare and pretend I said something different, but the earthen smell of your body reminded me about dark rooms, the glow of a red light, som