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.
It is clean smelling, like a hint of pledge. It smells like fresh laundry and clean sheets. The smell lacking real character. You notice the absence of smells really. The absence of coffee, old bread, dirty socks, Mary Jane and anger. It's lavender and grey. Not a cold pane grey but a sort of soft grey you could use to glamour yourself and never appear again. Soft like for and warm enough for you to take a nap at 3pm. It sounds like laughter, footstep echoes, machinery and softer movements like dancing from the room above yours. It sounds like slow rain and fast rain, page shuffling page, softly trying to sing outloud for the first time, and, every now and again, silence. --loneliness
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