Das riecht so gut.

We always find out ways to remember things by, keep little snippets of them for our memory's sweet sake. I wish you could do the same thing to smells though. Is there a way you can package and envelop a trace of a particular smell? So that even after five years, the person's gone, the smell's LONG gone, but you still have it. Smell it, and that characteristic trademark of her's/his pops up in your mind, and gives you the greatest satisfaction ever, for those couple of seconds.
Like right now, I wish I could just preserve the way Tiggy smelt, because goddarnit she smells beautiful. Musty, dusty and.. Just, very cat-like. There's no other way to describe it. Its a warm comfortable smell. Smells like home. I wish I could save the smell, for years down the line.

'Cause you know we'll make it through.

One of those moments when the song's over, but the beats still play on in your head. Like a cascading waterfall, like walking down an unending spiral staircase. The thoughts still resonate in your head and cause an internal explosion. An epiphany. You'll never be the same again.

[6] This is the end, my friend, the end.

Her head's on his lap, hand sprawled over the sofa and the other fumbling with the iPod in her hand. His hand is playing with her hair. Sigur Ros keeps playing on loop. Both of them are silent, and seemingly content. Then, suddenly she sits up and looks at him. Stares at his face for a while, a long while. He's puzzled, wondering why she's doing so. She sits up straight, looks into his eyes, and says in the most matter of fact tone ever, "I love you too."
He raises his eyebrows, slowly smiles, first a little and then finally widely. He leans in to kiss her, and she stops him. He backs off, confused. She's not done, apparently. "I love you too, but you need to know that this isn't working out for me." The smile slides off his face like runny paint on plastic. "What's the matter?" He looks annoyed, for the first time in his life.
"You know you're amazing right? Because you are. You're smart, amazingly attractive, funny, sweet, sensitive, and you make me very happy, most of the time. When you don't, it's not you, it's me. Yes, we hear it all the time in movies and read it in books, the 'it's not you, it's me' line. I mean it, though. I don't see this balancing. I'm crazy, short-tempered, extremely moody, hysteric, unpredictable and I need someone who can balance me out. You're-" she pauses, sighs, then continues. "You're too much of a dreamer. And sad part is, so am I. I like to dream big, and I like to dream of things that I know I will never get, and those dreams keep me happy. Also, I'm too unstable a person to be with. And I'm sorry, but you will never understand it, because you sort of don't understand the type of person that I am. You get carried away, and so do I. It's.. I don't see this working."
He's quiet. She wonders if he's going to cry. He's the kind to, anyway. "But why, baby? We can work it out." "Yeah, another thing. I hate the endearments. No baby-ing or honey-ing me. You know that." He looks shocked, and has a blank expression on his face. She still hasn't paused the music, he notices. So much for indifference. So it isn't him, all along. She justified it too.
"Fine." He gets up, and goes to splash some cold water on his face.