I don't believe in microwaves. That's what she said: nor colors: nor cigarettes. The color of teeth.
North. Some people who smoke smell like cigarettes and stale curtains and soft death in the corners. Some people who smoke smell like cats and stones and some smell like Pynchon novels, paneled walls and glass ashtrays. Some smell antediluvian, unedited, like letters to the editor and old New York apartments, buildings, prewar, crossword puzzles or pianos.
Some smell like west, like white denim; a car culture, with sunglasses, stranded. A few smell like Earth, francophilia, Yugoslavia. Deliquescence.
One smelled like sex and desire and anxiety and smoke and death and Lacan and loss and stress and risk and knowledge and friendship and fucking.

And he said:
I haven't eaten
in days. See
my hands
are shaking.