Almost edible. Sweet soft translucent plastic erasers, the collectible kind. Coconut infused almond milk suspended in a waxy balm. Creamy, but brightened by vegetation, slightly grassy. Not gassy though because I remembered to take Lactaid. And I’m feeling less guilty because it’s froyo.

 Nina described this as the scent of a babysitter. (It does kind of smell like drugstore sunblock or body splash, but in a good way). Louis simply said, “vegetable.”

An instant of balsamic sharpness is enveloped in honey and smoke from coiled incense. The moment, trapped in languid substances, crystallizes into candy. It tastes similar to the candied salted plums a Chinese matron might have in a dish on her rosewood vanity. Beside the dish is a compass, an hourglass, and a candle, its single flame multiplied to infinity in the gaze of two facing mirrors.

Coral dawn casts its glow upon a mahogany piano. Dawn turns to dusk. Dusk turns to dust. Dust to dust. Aided by these rays, one can see minute particles of dust settling into fingerprints on the white keys of a beloved piano. In this rare light the black keys seem to recess into the background rather than rise higher than the ivory ones. I wonder what my metronome smells like?

United towards a single goal, thousands of clementine droplets—splattered across cement and open toes—float into a formless mesh sack, and self-assemble into juicy orbs. The sack, now filled with over 1500% of the recommended dosage for vitamin C, lifts upward with a robust heave. Floating above stainless witnesses, bound on a steep vertical trajectory past atmosphere and ozone, the fully-formed citrus settles on a conveyor belt that transcends space and time. Carried through the Kunlun mountains, it has a legendary encounter with the Golden Mother of the Shining Lake, who returns the fruits to a tree in an infinite orchard shared with the peaches of immortality.