Beyond the Pashtun Summit Memoirs of a Perfume Collector 2022

the warm smoky room needed to be aired out.
from the workshop next door, the smell of fuel wafted through the cracked window.
now it smelled like smoked gasoline.
fresh air refused to come through the window,
it remained cozy and spicy, some might say a bit musty.
today, no sun wanted to rise, the sky was gray and overcast, it stayed dark.
he nodded off while sitting, the ember of his hand-rolled cigarette scorched the leather sofa.
he briefly dreamed of hashish and poppy, but when he awoke again,
he had forgotten it once more.
he searched for the fruits but found none, they must have rolled under the sofa.
didn't he have a pomegranate lying around?
ah no, it was its thickened juice, not fruity at all, rather bitter and slightly sour.
on the table was a small puddle of some spilled alcohol,
perhaps whiskey, somehow syrupy dried up,
so that the ethereal volatility was missing, it was resinous, dry, and herbal.
he still thought about whether he should burn a piece of creamy sandalwood,
to cover the gasoline leather coal, but he had none left,
so it remained gray-ashy and burnt leathery in the room, somehow stony, mineral-like.
he also thought of black decayed wet wood, as it lay still damp in the forest
and the deer had rubbed against it.
yes, today really should not see any sun,
but even such a lazy day he knew,
to enjoy in the contemplation of the exhalations of various shades of gray and black,
to savor.