The scent of burning oak leaves in October in Missouri;
an oncoming breeze laden with the smell of mint plants;
a Chinese restaurant while waiting in line for a table;
a passing pipe smoker using rum-and-maple tobacco;
the uncontaminated breasts of a female companion;
the brewing of coffee in the winter;
the interior of a new automobile I just purchased;
and, although I detest the smell of liquor,
somehow, I’m carried asunder by the surprise of
liquor on the breath of a strange lady.
Chuck Berry’s journal excerpt in
The New Yorker, January 21, 2002
