A delicate fragrance rises from the bush: jasmine.

A delicate fragrance rises from the bush: jasmine.

They only bloom at dawn -- most of the day, nearby buildings block out the light.

When you were quite small, there was a jasmine plant that trailed over the neighbour's fence. Knowing they could be made into tea, you took a flower and popped it in your mouth one autumn morning.

It tasted like perfume -- floral, bitter. The flavour lingered on your tongue all day.

You could build a garland of the small white blooms, wear it in your hair. Trail a path of perfume behind you.

A vast improvement on your current odour.

Repulsive. But still relaxed.

The smell of you, for her.

Then, whenever you get zeroed out, she'll have to spend the rest of her life avoiding perfume counters, tea rooms, and community gardens.

A suburb of Almina al-Azraq. Green bushes, knee-high, stretch across a plateau. Boys with skirts woven into nets pluck small white flowers from between the leaves, pinching just beneath each bud.

The smell is ecstatic, overwhelming.

As much as 75% of the world's commercial jasmine is produced in this vast field. Children as young as five work alongside their parents, wiping pollen and pesticides from their cheeks.

Mud-soaked canine groin, leg lifted, as it pisses all over a bed of springy plants. You blink -- the piss hits your face, sours your taste, throwing you out from your pleasant dream among the budding white flowers.

Advanced dog technique.

They'll bloom again tomorrow morning, so long as the sun is out.