Beyond the Pashtun Summit Memoirs of a Perfume Collector 2022

the warm, smoky building had to be aired out.
from the workshop next door, the smell of fuel permeated through the tilted window.
now it smelled of smoked petrol.
fresh air didn't want to come through the window,
it remained cozy and spicy, some would say a little divey-sticky.
today no sun wants to rise, the sky is gray, it remains dark.
he nodded off sitting down, the embers of his hand-rolled cigarette coking the leather sofa.
he dreamed briefly of hashish and poppies, but when he woke up again,
he had forgotten it again.
he looked for the fruits but couldn't find them, they must have rolled under the sofa.
didn't he still have a pomegranate lying around?
ah no, it was its thickened juice, not fruity at all, rather tart and a little sour.
there was a small puddle of some kind of spilled alcohol on the table,
perhaps whiskey, somehow dried up like syrup,
so that the ethereal volatility was missing, resinous, dry and herbaceous it was.
he was still thinking about whether he should incense a piece of creamy sandalwood,
to cover up the petrol charcoal, 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 rotten wood, how it still lay damp in the forest
and the deer had rubbed against it.
yes, there really shouldn't be any sunshine today,
but even such a lazy day, he knew
contemplating the exhalations of various shades of gray and black,
to enjoy.