A 55, currently 12 words over. Should be able to get it down pretty easily, and I like it so far:
My father’s admonishments smell like fresh pumpernickel. The smell of new-cut grass is sandpaper on my skin. Your hair in my hands tasted of orange curry. The taste of your lips moved green triangles across my vision. And watching you walk away sounded like a bee under a plastic cup, the buzzing slowly dying away as you got smaller and smaller and disappeared into your cab.
Tags: 55aday, 55s, ari collins, synesthesia
