General to specific

There's a smell of something sweetly foul in the air. I hear a machine buzzing overhead and wonder if I've lost a splinter of my previous ethereal life into the maw of the unpaid-cable-bill static. Smoke; I like to smoke. The particulate matter is particular and mattes my kineticism with a stupor only the iron-y taste of unmitigated failure can match.

Sometimes dogs bark when they're at a loss for words. Othertimes, they don't. We use our mouths too much, the orator told us, and we need to listen more. Quiet!

With no regard for my safety -- what exactly does that mean? -- all the women in my life who wanted to be nothing more than friends proceeded to form a rather cacophonous symphony against me. A smear campaign of small proportions. A giant fuck-you bird lofted to my face with merry cheer. Specifically, they stopped returning my phone calls. A conspiracy of small proportions. A bird in flight inches from my nose. A simile mistaken as a metaphor.

Generally speaking -- what specifically does that mean? -- I am an instance in time and space and history and the future. Matter and spirit do not exist, nothing but the substance and durability of a reflection in a mirror. Generally speaking, specifics are hard to reach. More specifically, generalizations taste like iron.