Time collapses, and history dilutes itself. Yesterday is as close as the furthest future. Hyper-masculinity Is floating next to an ageless generation. Your skin aged, sun, cigarettes. Now it’s lit by your macbook screen. I smell the toxic fumes of an imaginary future just as the toxic fumes of a past on street corners counting small crime money. I smell the towel of Rocky Balboa. I smell the silver screens which taught me all that, and I smell. You. And you are here. This is all you know. And you are young, but you smell like Paul Newman, like after shave on irritated skin.