Al Quotion. The Part Of Improvisation (№ 156718)

My life smells like apples. Almost invisible, sweet, drunk aroma, circling the head. The smell of the knowledge of good and evil, the smell of fall. The scent of passion and innocence, the smell of the ripe fruit of the soul. I smell like apples. I smoke and smile in the window, I fed birds bread, soaking up skin last summer, I fed a wild lonely souls odd words, throwing on the shoulders of sadness and watching the leaves fall off the tree. I laugh, a light hand at the opening of the harvest season. Hunting season. I greedily breathe the air, I sniff, listen, I'm looking for... And the anticipation of the wave down the back, and the movements are deceptively soft, and predatory narrowed pupils, and faster and more furiously beating heart... You smell like apples.