Miasma

It's not the season, I tell myself. It's not the lack of light: I've always dreamed of being nocturnal. It's not the cold: that snaps you to attention like nothing else. Hey! Your nostrils are dying! The air is crisp but be mindful of your breathing--too much and you'll destroy your bronchioles! It's not the toil of slogging: everyone does this. What else is new? (Thse second-person narrative ends here.) I'm starting to feel like I've seen too many of these. How many more? My life line cuts off at about mid-palm. I should start making plans on the basis of this. A mod haircut and a more extroverted demeanor won't cover it. They just won't. What does get me is walking into buildings, whereat the stench hits you: one part socks, one part sloppy carpet, one part tracked-in mud mixed with one part thawing bits of microscopic shit, one part mouth-breath recycled in the library again and again, the whole building sick and falling, falling and sinking, sinking and melting and shining its lights the entire time, one more part unwashed hair with its unwashed oils, one part little bits of food from between teeth, one part mucus suspended in droplets from dozens of mouths sneezing in this lobby every minute. The air outside, by contrast, is crisp. That's what gets me: the transitions of winter. From a Nietzscheian joy at self-overcoming on the snow-swept plains to neing a burrowing rodent of some kind navigating using olfactory cues, naked but for hairs on the head, the armpits, chest and pubis.

Cons: "I googled Google." "What came up?" "Google."