#24

A chopped up tree trunk bleeding floral aromatics by the side of the road. A splintery, brutalized carcass in its olfactory death throes. Stopping passerby’s in their tracks, drawing them in. Enticing them to press their nose to the raw wound and inhale. To put these bits and pieces in their pockets, bags, and take them home, for no other reason than that the wood has awakened something in the recesses of their brain, something hidden, something innate, a programmed appreciation, causing their mind to reel with memories unrecognized.