It comes like pollen, a lost bee on a single airplane engine perfurating the air, with tainted zest of a pistil of a flower. It soon finds its way into my soul, through the internodes, leaving the leaves paralyzed from the waist down. The aroma piles up like a test engine, the aircraft fume roling my overworked nostrils, a treat I long not to inhale. I delight on not wanting its drive to handicup my will, the thirst to submit my wagon into despair. I yearn to imped its way into my glory, decapitating the losen broken branches with a fury of a poisonous frog and yet, the butterflies manage to find their way up, crawling like intoxicated caterpillars at the sound of the church bell.