Experiences involving the tasting and touching of the outsides and the insides aren't so easily translatable. My insides taste like old charcoal, freshly-ground coffee, stealing from Goodwill, well whiskey, and the usual boredom, depression, and fatigue. The insides of my pockets taste like matchbooks, lint rollers, stale-on-arrival Christmas candy, overarching and persistent illusions of grandeur, dead weight, etc. The exact core center of my mind tastes like Alpine spring water, probably. Alpine spring water obscured by cobwebs and various mildewed memories. I haven't been there in a long time. I am not sure how to get back there.