the cobblestone streets have been washed of the buckets of stale urine dumped on them. you can still see the blood spattered from the chokes of passersby infected with tuberculosis.

the oil streetlamps still reek of singed hairs. the shapes of children remain burned onto the concrete, like a silhouette sketch stained into pearl. only more dingy and depressing, like the rest of the nineteenth century. or anytime, really.

like now. the stink of sweat saturated in body hair, stinking from being sauteed in the same sweat re-perspirated and more concentrated. you begin to sell the stale urine that was washed off the streets.

life, in short, is redundant. there are only new dilemmas to our unceasing solutions. and it seems that this pattern outdoes itself, in a manner of speaking.

when resources are spread thin, we will still not yet have seen how selfish we are. there will only be more solutions until the light of life dies for the very last time.

it has in me. i can’t take it anymore. there is no stench more repugnant than unfaltering pride.

yes, you can smell pride. it’s there, in the pheromones. it’s calvin klein mixed with body odor soaking through a polyblend suit. it’s piss and blood staining a camouflage uniform. it’s the aroma of gunpowder and coffee on new year’s day.