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February 2, 2013
Perfume, like unperfected cinnamon. Like smouldering passions, slowly burning. 

If I close my eyes, I can see it. A musky, dulled red, twirling in time with the dust, creating a trail straight to you.

I would follow it, willingly. Drink in the smell, each step taking me closer to its source.

That smell. It makes me shiver. Sweat. It jumbles up the words in my head, slows down my muscles, tenses up my tendons.

I would follow that smell to the ends of the world. To the very pit of hell itself. I would happily be damned for you.