Dusty, but clean, like the smell of time. It reminds me of old trees or old tree forts. It smells like my grandpa's leather couch. It smells like money that had passed many hands. And you can only smell it in the first moment it is released from the truly ancient beings. You slowly pull its tattered self off of the wood stacks and dust flutters in a ray of sun light that just passed in through the window. You look at the spine and glance at the words, then slowly open the front cover and feel the spine wrinkle in your fingers as you slide it into one palm. Then you flip through the pages. They fan out in a monotype and whispers and cracks as if daring you to look. That is the moment the smell floats past and it fills you with a promise from another world.
10 am
Blue light from my butterfly sari curtain comes in to make my skin feel like a lithograph. It's too early to get ready for work, so I put some left over curry in the microwave. 'Don't look at me like that.' I say to my cat, her judgmental stare piercing through my tough morning facade. I lied. I look like shit. I walk into the kitchen, getting goosebumps on my breasts. Maybe sleeping naked is a bad idea. I always seem to flip flop on that one in the winter. I turn to hear a laugh out my window, realize the curtains are open and decide sleeping naked is, in fact, a stupid idea. I mean what if there was a fire. I would be in the cold outside watching my house burn down, naked. I go put on my robe and eat my curry with my judgmental cat. I hate waking up when it is too early for work, but too late for anything of substance to grace my morning until work. So, I go back to sleep. These fifteen min have not happened, I decide as my cat slips into the unconsciousness I wish to...
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