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Untitled (4/18/24)

Fragrant singing rises to the top of the fresh silence in the air. The Prince shuffles wetly to the edge of his balcony, inhaling deeply through his ears to triangulate the source. Sweet floral notes backed by the thumping of a coffee-bitter drum. All the instruments in his garden could not match the pure sweetness in that voice. “My love!” he croaks, hesitant to befoul the air with his own stench but nonetheless unable to bear the thought of never knowing the owner of that symphonic bouquet. “Your song has enchanted me beyond all else. Who is it, now, that sings above the odorous hubbub? Whom have I fallen for?”

The singing tapers out, and the malodorous chattering of the market returns to the fore. The Prince falls back onto all fours, stymied by the distance he once demanded to bear the noise of others. “Ah, but it was not to be,” he sadly belches.