Naw that’s just the smell of fresh paint in your childhood bedroom - covering layers of teethmarks, stickers and etched initials. A big blanket of white, still a bit sticky and reflective. Throw tarps and paint cans lining the edge of the desk you used to climb under as a child and over as a teen to slip out the window. The room is a place to evaluate: distance traveled, degrees earned, worlds changed, people loved; sometime I sit in my childhood bed wrapped in the impressions of a lifetime, folded between the stories I can tell now. Other days I return to this room with a stomach disgust, stagnant blood, landed too close to the nest and spent his life climbing back up the filial tree with broken wings. This room can be a canon shooting me towards the possibilities of life, or it can be a cage where I stew in safety, waiting for the perfect patterns to blink the beacons of my future. It’s strong magic. It’s bone white now. Reflective and sticky to the touch.