Big navel gazer here; I often start in a delusionally romantic state of viewing things and evolve to a kind of reserved pragmatism through the process critical examination. Lately, writing has been like preserving these ephemeral states in amber, coexisting in a state of delicious permanence I can return to, instead of allowing them to wash away with the tides. This ultimately helps me engage more deeply with the world.
โI am nothing, I am everything, and Iโm certainly never in between to two. Itโs stupid to think I could be anything other than me, miserable and birthed. Death to everyone who isnโt such things. What is the point of life if not to indulge every dreadfully mediocre sadness to its climax only to realize you have to get off a whole single file line of dreadfully mediocre sadnesses? Respite is only plausible in physicality. There is no escape from a self pitying and exhaustingly guilty mind. Hypocrisy after hypocrisy, I weave myself more securely into my mental web. No one gets in, no one gets out. Itโs the way I like it and the way I insurmountably loathe it, balanced by the progression of life itself.โ
This it the kind of scent that will leave those within a couple feet of you trying to put their finger on its opulence for hours afterward. This fragrance is more of a feeling. On application it has a warm, woodsy quality, with an after note of floral sweetness. Its central ingredient of ambroxin morphs the middle notes of the fragrance to the nose based on your skin chemistry/ ph, giving it an intoxicating, lascivious artificial quality. It feels like running your fingers over silk. The saccharine blend of sugar and tapioca powder, like an embrace and being the last person awake at night all at the same time. Perfectly ambiguous in its qualities, and perfectly limitless to those who can (and should) wear it.
