It is with sadness that we announce the passing of a certain person known to the reader, but tangentially, in other contexts and in another country.
It is with remorse we witness the events of this January and prepare for more Januaries like this one, lauded by loud men with flak jackets and guns.
It is with sympathy, these flowers faint from the fields, fresh and wet raise the smell of the wicker basket they are brought in on, laid flat.
They take your laces before you smell cut grass, dark room chemicals and reveal the look of surprise, the whites of her eyes, a nation caught out.
I want to smell that room, when the AP calls it, the sweaty uneasy human smell of bodies in a room, uneaten pastries, conference room coffee, exactly as you expect.
It is with confidence we take a car back home in the rain and snap a photo of a friend sleeping raindrops echoed on his cheek and miss again the street parties shuffling home.
You pull up your shiny car and I hop in, a gigolo on that last of nights. There was so much gum, and the smell of acetone, burning my hands clean on the way home.