“I stick my finger into existence and it smells of nothing.”

“... Unlike some people, I don't have the urge to go sticking my fingers in it.”

“My mom is having a Scentsy party tomorrow," he said."The scented-wax thingies? Random. But go on."He laced his fingers together on his lap. "I was thinking... I know how much you love to smell things."I nodded. I could spend hours in a candle store sticking my nose inside every jar. "True. I do love to smell.""Well, instead of going on your suicide mission, you could just come to the party. We could go smell crazy and even sneak a few of my mom's JELL-O shots. Eh?" He poked a finger in my ribs. "Epic, right?”

“If I had nostrils on my index fingers, I wonder what the inside of my nose would smell like?”

“I stick my finger in existence — it smells of nothing. Where am I? Who am I? How came I here? What is this thing called the world? What does this world mean? Who is it that has lured me into the world? Why was I not consulted, why not made acquainted with its manners and customs instead of throwing me into the ranks, as if I had been bought by a kidnapper, a dealer in souls? How did I obtain an interest in this big enterprise they call reality? Why should I have an interest in it? Is it not a voluntary concern? And if I am to be compelled to take part in it, where is the director? I should like to make a remark to him. Is there no director? Whither shall I turn with my complaint?”

“The alcohol smell is on my fingers, cold and remote, piercing like a steel pin going in. It smells like white enamel basins. When I look up at the stars in the nighttime, cold and white and sharp, I think they must smell like that.”