Dear Hannah,

Lemon. Coffee (you open a new container). Warm bread (the best smell in the world). Cheese. Mustard. Toothpaste. Face cream. Washing powder. First the heater, then the hallway of the house. Fresh air / outside. The park (grass, bushes, earth, all together.) Engine gases. Food (coming from restaurants as you cycle down the street). Spices. Fried chicken. A mix of piss and alcohol and something else unpleasant that’s hard to identify. A hint of cigarette smoke. The lining of a tram seat. The facemask. Your breath in the facemask. A man’s perfume. An orange (while being peeled). A woman’s perfume. Dust or sand, something earthy (in the studio). Rhubarb lemonade. Metal (in the palm of your hand, from the keys you’ve been holding). The wood of the staircase. A friend (while you hug). A book (I remember someone saying, ‘it’s the glue binding the pages together’). Something rotten (and then you find an apple rotting under other fruit in the fruit bowl). Garlic in oil in a hot pan. Rosemary. Thyme. Cumin. Fresh Mint. A rubber mat. Sweat. Soap (something fruity, ‘apple’). Shampoo (coconut). Verbena. Ginger. Smoke after you blow out the candle. A sweater (it has its own scent, maybe it’s mine). The sheets. The pillowcase.

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