The fire is fake. It comes from my TV. Yet it crackles and, combined with the smoky scent of plum incense, it becomes real enough. This is, I realize, the underlying principle of perfume-making: combining elements that have nothing to do with a real rose, to create something that is rose enough. Or the longing for the real rose. That's it; in the exact same way a perfume is a longing, fake fire is another. I could now overturn the stone and find underneath, scattering in a panic, countless little bits of my reality constructed in the same manner--love, friendships, my entire self-image. I could, but I won't. Longings deserve more delicate handling than dissection, and I've been working hard to make my hands small and light. Nearly transparent.
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