It is four am and I am sitting in front of my computer. I am drunk
and sleepy. Earlier in the night, I spilled Kahlua on my jeans and
they smell faintly of chocolate, strongly of smoke. It is four am
and I have vacuumed my floor. My room is neat and unfamiliar. It
smells like artificial potpourri. Real potpourri does not smell like
flowers. The dead buds are doused in perfumes. The trick is to make
the dead smell as if they are alive, as at an open casket funeral
the corpse looks both disturbingly alive and utterly unfamiliar, as
though the dead, resurrected, may not resume their former shape but
must take on another, the physical being a manifestation, nothing more.
It is all an elaborate illusion.