I think I can smell music.

The olfactory bits are said to trigger memory the strongest, and alongside ginger, petroleum and babies wafts odorous notes into the holes of my face.

It’s been this way a long time now. It seems to be a lingering side-effect from my years of massive speed-snorting. Sometimes while high the synesthesia would kick in strong- distinguished modes of perception gradually burned and melted together until the feel of leather upholstery became a taste on my cut lips, and I could hear Picasso’s “Violin” peel pieces of cubed requiems.

After months of coming down the mush has greatly unmushed, but the aroma of song lingers. I don’t know if the ailment will last, but I kind of like it this way. Absorbing some bits and sections of living across multiple senses can feel good when clean.

Using’s hurt still pinches up my skin in moments, although this bruising gets calamined when scents of brass and percussion are cooked just right.