What kinda smells do you like? Which ones are you more like, "I don't like that,"? Are there smells you are impervious to? Sometimes the smell of kibble can cause a froth in me to boil.

There can be a metaphysical component to smells.

How are your hands smelling in this moment?

I can no longer smell anything because of cocaine and hoes.

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Lavender, gardenia, fresh clothes out of the dryer, leather, cut grass & coffee.

My hands smell like the concern a taxi driver has when you pay by card, and it doesn't go through the first time. A nervous sweat that shouldn't be there, but technologically remains. Deep down, he knows that my card - my spirit - is pure, but life pollutes everything. A second attempt is made, but the magic is lost, despite fulfilling payment in full. Please dad me, Ted.

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Crazy, but: the smell of fresh cut/rolled hay curing inside a barn...something about the combination of the hay and the earthen floor of the barn combined; fresh dirt and diesel...my maternal grandfather did custom bulldozer work for much of his life, and as a kid I was fascinated by the machinery, so that combination of smells sticks in my mind as pleasant for some reason. Damn, I'm nuts.

Freshly cut grass and being out in the woods after it rains.

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Help me ID these sets:
Sasha - Live @ Logic, Santa Monica, CA 12-21-97 - Groove 103.1 FM
John Digweed - Live @ Axis, Boston 28-07-1997



Old & New Electronic Music Channel
Soundcloud Mixes

Smells would be a kickass nickname.

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Latest releases:
Endless Cycles [Capital Heaven]
The Charlatan [Morphosis]

HODOR.

Make way for the magenta placenta as it splatters with majesty upon the tile, spreading out in sinuous shapes as it is slurped up with a calm vigor from the rusty drain placed dead center in the crackling floor. The deadened smack of a rubber glove striking the bone on a wrist claps its sterile applause for a tortuous second as the lab-coated figure pivots with a sordid satiation, admiring the dim dissipation of the mother-load lapping listlessly out of existence, consuming an odd ember of an old flame he thought once extinguished, fiendishly wasping about inside that rubbery expanse between his temples. His lips peel back impishly in the shape of a smile, a reptilian tongue flicking across clenched incisors gilded with the goldenrod hue of lost lunches and smooth vomit. Her legs tremble like crumbling autumn leaves as the physician enters her, mimicking the aforementioned display with the drain quite sufficiently.

All for the smells down beneath. The spells she may beque(eath/eef).

Smooth vomit FTW

How does one fiendishly wasp?

Hey I was blonde a long time ago, ok?

Light Blue by Dolce Gabana for men.

Always enjoyed natural gas.