Entries

The eyes see clutter — the nose smells citrus, and the brain sides with the nose because the nose was right more often in evolutionary time.

A scent that never stops is a scent the nose forgets — the timer reintroduces it, and the nose treats every burst as the first time.

The jasmine does not change — the shop changes, and the shop tells the nose what to think.

The strong scent sells itself — the faint one waits to be found, and the finding feels like privilege.

Removing the smell says nothing — covering it with citrus says clean, and the nose prefers an answer to a silence.

The novel scent asks the nose a question — the familiar one answers it before it is asked, and the answer is yes.

The coffee sold a notebook — the aroma crossed the aisle, and the wallet opened where the scent landed.

The room has no windows — but the nose smells open air, and the brain believes the nose over the walls.

The shop does not need a follow-up email — the coat sends a reminder every time the wardrobe opens.

A slogan competes with language — a scent competes with nothing, because the nose files alone.

The scent does not sell products — it buys time, and every stolen minute is a minute the shopper spends without knowing she spent it.

The branch does not smell honest — but clean and honest share a metaphor, and the nose cannot tell them apart.