The sun, an hour above the horizon, is poised like a bloody egg upon a crest of thunderheads; the light has turned copper: in the eye portentous, in the nose sulphurous, smelling of lightning.
- William Faulkner
You know, I've got 1,000 candles in a closet in my home in Atlanta, and I suppose that is excessive. But I'll tell you what: it's the best-smelling closet you've ever been in in your life.