Too much garlic again. Did I leave traces? Yes, it was unfortunate, untimely, telling the assistant she should read that horror novel about the murderous perfumer of Paris; and to comment on the fudge between male and female pongs in her space-ship display with its little jewelled locks and chains. I scan the named scents – so evocative – Downdrop – Holy Ripeness – bright flowers of evil – Bile Transport Discharge – Sweet Orifice – Neutral/Ego and the rest. She suspected me. Her eyes called the cops. I imagined the interview; ‘Are you sure he said ‘mass murderer’ and ‘Lilac Hemorrhage?’ And the arrest – ‘But what have I done?’ New Crime; the purchase of conversation in quasi-erotic shops; verbally licking bottles of speech vapour. A mystery. After all, this is a kind of anti-cemetery, a nasal cover-up. It’s a legal body exchange clinic. The winding sheets. Mary’s unguent. The Myrrh’s little secret. I felt as guilty as hell, leaving her thinking of the sewer I had conjured, the diseased effulgent of my imagination lapping at that tender spot behind her ear.

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