A Quote by Daul Kim

I am a dumb piece of meat and I rot everyday my flesh gives a rotting smell and people say it's the smell of life and they come to me and watch me rot and get happy and upset and annoyed and disgusted and maybe sometimes feel compassion but they don't realize they are rotting too.
There is to me about this place a smell of rot, the smell of rot that ripe fruit makes. Nowhere, ever, have the hideous mechanics of birth and copulation and death -those monstrous upheavals of life that the Greeks call miasma, defilement- been so brutal or been painted up to look so pretty; have so many people put so much faith in lies and mutability and death death death.
I have nothing against the smell of rot but something against what hides the smell of rot in the United States of America.
I was brooding, boy. Than which there is no richer pastime. It muffles one with rotting plumes. It gives forth sullen music. It is the smell of home.
Tenderness and Rot Tenderness and rot share a border. And rot is an aggressive neighbor whose iridescence keeps creeping over. No lessons can be drawn from this however. One is not two countries. One is not meat corrupting. It is important to stay sweet and loving.
The man is a monster. The worst I have ever seen, in fact, since I last looked in the mirror. The truth? I am rotting too. I am buried alive, and already rotting. If I was not such a coward I would kill myself, but I am, and so I must content myself with killing others in the hope that one day, if I can only wade deep enough in blood, I will come out clean.
I like fresh and clean. I don't ever want anyone to smell me and say, 'Oh that guy is wearing a lot of cologne.' I want people to smell me and say, 'You smell really good!' I think there is a difference.
When you smell our candles burning, what does it make you think of, my child?" Winterfell, she might have said. I smell snow and smoke and pine needles. I smell the stables. I smell Hodor laughing, and Jon and Robb battling in the yard, and Sansa singing about some stupid lady fair. I smell the crypts where the stone kings sit. I smell hot bread baking. I smell the godswood. I smell my wolf. I smell her fur, almost as if she were still beside me. "I don't smell anything," she said.
It's important for me to say something, and with wisdom if I can. I don't think there's anything wrong with just going out there and having fun and goofing around. I want to experiment with that too. But yeah, I feel like I have a responsibility to produce something hopeful, and maybe inspirational to people. When people come up to be and tell me how my music has changed their lives, that only encourages me to take it more seriously. Sometimes I get annoyed with myself for getting too serious, but that's just what I need to do.
You stay out here a little while, an' if you smell any roses, you come let me smell, too.
He could smell her morality, the sweet rot of corruption
It is easy to love people when they smell good, but sometimes they slip into the manure of life and smell awful. You must love them just as much when they smell foul.
Zombies smell worse than anything you can imagine if you haven’t been hunting things on the dark side of the world. It’s a ripe, gassy odour, like rotting eggs and meat gone bad, crawling blind with maggots. It’s road kill and decayed food and body odour all rolled into one package and tied up with puke.
The concept that you are not ingesting rotting flesh sort of sums it up for me.
Force, force, everywhere force; we ourselves a mysterious force in the centre of that. "There is not a leaf rotting on the highway but has Force in it: how else could it rot?" [As used in his time, by the word force, Carlyle means energy.]
When a baby comes you can smell two things: the smell of flesh, which smells like chicken soup, and the smell of lilies, the flower of another garden, the spiritual garden.
When I first went to university, I did a big shop with my dad. We bought loads of stuff but it didn't occur to me that I needed to refrigerate it, so I just put it in my room. I remember thinking, 'What's that smell coming from under the bed?' It was a bag of potatoes. How long does it take for a potato to rot? Months!
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