The future smells like dishsoap and ink

and Jack's magic beans.

never the lost radio / nor the static of belonging / for you no longer share the frangi pangi tree / having been spoken in too many languages at once

The future smells like dishsoap and ink. They say you can walk in and out of the future and carry pieces of it back. The way you split the stalk of the tall sunflower and it was warm and dry inside, all fib…