RICH FOETID FRAGRANCE

A few years ago I worked at a computer company on the edge of the salt flats. Which stank. We blessed the air-conditioning there daily. As well as the eucalyptus trees on the grounds of nearby educational institution. Those of us who smoked subjected ourselves to smells. But everyone there had issues. Given that it was hotter than San Francisco, and further away from sources of food, if one rejected the rotting cadavers of beasts that had strayed to far into the industrial park. On the edge of the saltflats, where the world ended.

For a while I worked at a law company down at the Embarcadero Centers. Where the San Francisco sewer system is possibly Roman. Etruscan. Marseillais, even.
Lawyers are used to working amid a stench.
They'll make one otherwise.

There is a tidal swamp not far from where I work these days. Blessed are the cigar huffing yutzes, for they disguise the smell of dead and dying fish. And crustaceans. And overweight seabirds keeling over from too many good dead things to eat.

Raptors and carrion eaters circle over the freeway nearby, looking for escaped children from stalled cars and discraded junk food containers.



The suburbs are filled with zombie walrusses gorping on fried food.



I starting to miss the salt flats of my youth.



It's a wasteland out there.




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