One Thousand Scents

Saturday, January 02, 2010


I try to avoid telling this to people who are about to tell me about a dream they had last night, but other people's dreams are staggeringly boring. I mean, I'll listen, and I'll make the appropriate comments and noises, but really, what could be more uninteresting than hearing what happened to someone when they weren't even awake? It's like listening to a six-year-old recount the plot of a movie that you didn't see, and what's more, wouldn't ever see.

Having said that, I am about to recount a nightmare I had last night, but I promise I'll keep it short. You are welcome to not read any further, of course.

I dreamed that all my scents, all of them, from the smallest samples to the largest full bottles, had gone off to varying degrees: they were all in corrupted shades of brownish gold, possibly my least favourite colour, and they were all worthless, from slightly wrong (but still unwearable) to completely disgusting.

Scared the hell out of me.


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