Action must be taken: get up, get out. You do not move. You consider the strangeness of the other odours you find yourself within, and those which the water content of your waste is activating in your clothing. How long have you been wearing them, and why do you not recall? The stains of food and sweat on your loins and legs, belly and back and other endampened areas have been exposed. The same rotten, vegetative smells seem present in the floor or the floor-covering, if there is one. You cannot in fact discern with any accuracy which smells come from yourself and which from your immediate surroundings. You feel as though you are spreading out into the floor, commingling with the room, and you arch your back a little, feebly and for only a few seconds, to hold it off.
The floor feels hard through your clothing but there may still be some thin carpet there, barely a carpet at all. Something either begun with delicate thinness, or just worn down over decades or longer. Perhaps it is the remnant of something plump and luxurious now long-used and spread flat, uniformly or in patches, by tramping or lying-down or playing upon it. You worry that your pointier parts will be rubbed smooth or will break the skin through continued pressure against so hard a surface.
There are other odours too, you realise; whether they were always smelled and you just had no time to spend upon them mentally, or they are something newly noticed and projected back across your time here, you cannot say. Whatever they may be, and however caused, they cohere together your memories since arrival. Your first impression had been that this room, and possibly the one before, had been uniform in the rankness of the stench which they emitted. Your ability to think, and certainly—
Shuffle, clump, scrape.
—Bark! Bark, bark!
Silence.
—your ability to differentiate one thought from another, or thought from other things, diminishes the more time you spend upon them. In all prior circumstances which you can recall of strong-scent exposure, time had seen the lessening of it. Say rather that time had changed the magnitude or experience of it, some coping mechanism of your body, one of so many which appear now to be either broken or subverted. If this smell of yours is as constant in reality as it seems in recollection then surely it must in fact not be a singular smell at all, rather a changing cloud of related smells, varying according to some cycle which bests your ability to attune to it. In such a manner it simply appears to you as a continuous whole, able to remain confirmably present over so long a period by stopping your body from being able to adapt to its shifting and so render it truly insensible.
Can you not therefore force yourself to learn discernment here, to develop some passive mechanism for understanding, at a whiff, what time it might be? Might it not be a subtle and cheesy rank in the morning, shifting through a meaty afternoon rank to the cold dead rank of the nights? You might thus build up a catalogue of useful scents, assuming they are daily in nature, or at least to some other human-scale cycle. You might assemble enough of a variability in content, schedule and time to tell the current period of the day as well as by some mechanical clock.