A storm smells of ions, of salt, of water in the wind. It may, poetically, reek of chaos and imminent harm, even of death on the march. But, to be pedantic, I doubt a storm smells anything. It is too busy being chaotic to organize anything as delicate as an olfactory sense organ.

I know these distinctions seem terribly dull and pedantic. But they are the subtle paths and switches of communication. Ignore tham at your peril -- when you cut down your communication, you cut down your own power and life-force in the world, to some degree.


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