I wonder about the life of spaces I have passed through. What songs have they heard that I have not? When did the stench of death pass through? The honey scent of life? The particles of the past linger in the air eternally keen to the nose of hounds who can discern every atom of this invisible world that I can only know via memory. I am envious that this space where I have kissed my wife will, with the passage of time, kiss the lips of thousands of other men, know so much more life than I can dream. Dreams have no bones. What is mine will never stay with me. The scented layers of my soul will be known but never found.