My genius is in my nostrils.
The feathery palms that lined the drainage canals, the acacia thorns and sycamores, all glistened with the sheen of new, pale-green leaves, and in Khaemwaset’s gardens the vivid clusters of flowers had begun to bloom with an abandon that assaulted the eyes and filled the nostrils with delight.
No coffee can be good in the mouth that does not first send a sweet offering of odor to the nostrils.
There is no scent so pleasant to my nostrils as that faint, subtle reek which comes from an ancient book.
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