At this time of the night, what percolates theough the filter of tires senses is the smell. Not necessarily fragrances or odors, good smells or bad. Rather, it is the smell of life, careworn and exhausted, seeping from weary creases in faces, the slightly open mouths set in heads, nodding in sleep. Hair product, losing their chemical hold after long hours at labor or a night’s dissipation. There are the smells of a day’s food, of alcohol in bottles and stemmed glasses. Perfumes, old and freshly-spritzed, a quick touch up for a little perk up. That mildly musty, sour smell of newspapers, unrolled and slowly perused, the mind taking in news that went to press a few hours later the night before. The smell of clothes, worn the whole day. It is the smell of life, carrying the knowledge that the body must make this ride, still, swaying, constantly in motion, through layers of earth to those glittering, dirty places in the city, where money is made, exchanged and worshipped, but never to be had for long.