I'll call this man Otis. He's so afraid of life, so swollen with apprehension, that he keeps a little house for all of his things, and locks them away in cabinets, and chests, and specially made cases.
There, on the middle shelf on the eastern wall is a rose-wood box trimmed is brass and lined in deep green velour. This is the box for Otis's little soldier.
But you see, this soldier wants to fight. Oh sure, when they put him in that lush green box, he thought it was the jungle crawling with enemy guerrillas and poisonous snakes. But instead of the smell of Blood and Valor, the reek of rosewood crept in and the stale smell of Otis's fear, which hangs in the air like a puff of smoke, lingering on your clothes or days.
can you smell it now? No, of course not. You're here reading this, but you smelled it on your way in. Or last week, when you got into the office at nine, what was that in the elevator?
You see, the fear rubs off on you, and it wants to stick. It wants to weigh you down from living, to keep away the everyday things that Otis is so afraid of. And when you're in transit, when you're on your way to do and be what other people know you as, that's when the stink will rise.