He thinks the scent is honeysuckle, but it could just as well be lilac or some other suburban flower from his youth. It pushes him into daydreams of baseball and limousines and prom queens and parties at the beach that still hold the slight chill of fading winter. He dreams the growing green and the thawing soil… living chunks turned over in ritualistic planting ceremonies… he feels the continuation… the cycle… the life of everything. He remembers death in spring… early, unforgettable death where life is not lost so much as transfigured… transcendent energy taken in full bloom and trafficked into sublime Gaian consciousness. He wakes to the sound of physics… to the sound of billions of particles smashing into and out of and through each other. The anger, the happiness, the sadness, the truth, the beauty, the pain, the scents, the memories… he sees all of it at the molecular level… twisted and conscious of nothing… open to everything.