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Everything is found in the minutia

1st August, 2004. 1:58 am. On Rememberances

He was only 22 when it happend.

His girlfriend - tell it true, she was practically his double (assuming you were born within earshot of the Bells of Bow) - died that day, and a week later (let us not forget to honour the dead with at least a moment's grace) he began going through her things.

Finding the perfume she always wore, he smelled it - one last time, what could it hurt? - and, perhaps being memory, perhaps being true sense of scent, he found it pleasing. He put it on: on his wrists, on his neck, on all the places he'd expect to find her scent after some heavy necking, and found it highly reflexive of his phremones.

With time, he began wearing it more and more. He grew accustomed to the smell of her on him, or him on him, after some time he forgot to continue to make the distinction. On his wrists, her. On his mind, always her.

As he went out, surrounded by the musk of odour, he met people. He met friends, he met comrades, he met aquaintances, he met girls. Yet none would compare to her. Sipping his pint, his wrist approached his nose, his scent - his own scent by now, inflitrated his nostrils, infiltrated his mind, his thoughts.

The girls he met were lovely. They were fine specimens of their type. But none of them measured up. As he leaned over to kiss them (and they to kiss he, he had soft lips that had become - over time - legends in their own right) their scent mingled with his, with hers. And never did it work.

Always, always, he would smell them. He'd smell their hair, he'd smell their breath, he'd smell their sweat, and their perfume, and their love. And always, always did he turn away. None were good enough, although many were those who braver men would die for - had died for, had killed for, had lusted over, had dreamt about, had wished, and prayed, and plotted for, but never, never to attain, these were the unattainable, these were those of dreams.

He loved them all, loved them dearly. He had learned love with her, and, once learned, love is something that becomes second nature. But always, at the end of the night, he returned home alone. He smelled himself, loved himself, desired himself. Always him, always her.

Nobody else would do. The humble man became the narsissist on the basis of his nose - were he blind, he'd love himself none the less. Late at night he came to him - riding a wave of endorfins, memories, and lust. He made love to his body, learnt himself intimately. Held multi-hour convesations with himself.

But late at night, the cuddling always left him empty, left him wanting more.

Current mood: curious.
Current music: Wheat Kings - The Tragically Hip.

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