lamottAnne Lamott, Grace (Eventually), Thoughts on Faith
“After a while, I stretched out on one of the benches and closed my eyes. The kerosene smelled like lacquer, and and I kept feeling waves of nausea. My bones were cold. I could isolate the icy scent of pine trees that sneaked through the walls. Sometimes grace is a ribbon of mountain air that gets in through the cracks.”



WeedthepeopleBruce Barcott, Weed the People
“The smell of a grow room is the scent of transpiration, of fecund exertion. It’s the trapped sweat of a high school locker room, the funk of a hockey jersey steaming on a radiator.”