Some tastes are similar. Like oranges and tangerines picked fresh off the tree, their sticky innards warmed by the sun.

Some tastes are related. For me, cooked spinach tastes just like a spoon.

But nothing tastes quite like blood.

It has not rained in this city for some time now, and the pollen-thick air has become abrasively dry. I awoke at some point last night to find my face wet and sticky. The blood, from ruptured capillaries deep within my nasal passages, had oozed down my face, into my mouth.

This is a game we play often, my nose and I.

Chronic epistaxis can mean anything from a simple polyp to a tumorous growth in the nasal cavity. While there are many possible causes, it is most often due to a propensity to pick one�s nose.

I do not exactly have a nose picking fetish, so it must be one of the other various causes.

I could go to a medical professional and have them tell me exactly what I already know (the air�s too dry), or I could continue to live without knowing.

I choose to save my money and exist with a little mystery. But I fully except the fact that one day I might blow my nose and have my brain leak out on the tissue.

And when that day comes, I�m sure we�ll all have a good laugh at my brain�s expense.