The city smells of the undead, washed away by the acid rain. The city smells of cars crowding the lanes without moving. The city smells of hatred and of love. The city smells of thousands of different people, each moving like automated robots through their day.

I look into the eyes of the people you pass by on the street, a sneer is returned for my actions. I hail a taxi fifty minutes early to get to a building four miles down the road, and barely manage to make it. But I know while in this city, I may just get a whiff of success. So many others have found it here.

But what most don't see, is when you turn down those dark alley ways at night. The scent, the smell, the stench of putrid failure. Many more find this. Struggling to hide from the evasive cold, those poor desperate souls in search of that elusive scent. The smell of the wealthy.

I look around me, and if I could smell each one of their stories it would be a potpourri strong enough to knock me silly. Each one with their own story, reeking of triumph, stinking of selfishness, smelling of happiness, or the scent that we always recognize- hardship.

So take your potluck, with its opposite and disagreeing scents. The city smells for me. I'll stick to the simple floral arrangements of the country. Where everything is less sharp and defined, not too sweet or too bitter like the city I pass through. Where I can take a deep breath, and the only emotion I feel is peace.

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