Le Labo, “Petit Grain 21”

SPF 50 on a sleeping geisha. Just the right amount of cuteness that keeps your mind healthy and clear. Consider yourself a dolphin forever smiling, caught midair in a photograph.

Escentric Molecules, “Molecule 01”

Tinsel on evergreen branches shifts between states. Liquid, solid, gas. Several hundred feet below the mercurial canopy, fallen pine needles stick straight up from the ground. A chrome robot naps on the sharp pins with ease. On the other side of the world, its reclining form is contoured in relief. Artificial intelligence terraforms the planet in its sleep.

Le Labo, “Ambrette 9”

In anticipation of a nice meal, root vegetable applies musk with a bubble wand. The first course is corn sorbet for a baby served in a plastic scallop shell. The main course is a demonstration of adorable lifehacks which are ultimately of no consequence to your true destiny. Dessert consists of pear and apple cordials poured in an hourglass that has been laterally split in two.

Le Labo, “Vetiver 46”

The moth is a nomad with a guilty pleasure: light. God’s surveillance style is also light, so you could say the two are friends. A moth, however, doesn’t fly toward the sun. It is too bright and far away. Instead it flies toward a flame with its morph equipment ready and tiny manifesto in hand, flickering on and off, its poignant synergy with the darkness now complete. It could have gone other ways: violent sap, sticky web, deep winter, etc. God makes a tally and eyes the headset of her Oculus Rift waiting on the table nearby.

Le Labo, “Lys 41”

Riding down Milk Road on a motorcycle, you feel free. Life-size tourists with their pet children hang out near the shy fountains. Ten Anonymous Hymns for Guitar begins, and the miracle light reflects off the land juice, blinding you slightly (but in a good way). Year after year drips down your face, and every time you check the time, it’s spring.

Comme des Garçons, “Serpentine”

A glass knife rests in a grass field. Mechanical chirps softly construct a familiar melody. Silver reading glasses magnify a toad’s rapid eye movement, asleep at noon. Two full sets of house keys wait peacefully. A stiletto, after standing upright for hours, falls over in the breeze.

Ten meters north of these relics, a translucent white container labeled “OUR FAULT” would be empty if, a few minutes prior, a dove had held its bladder while flying overhead.

4160 Tuesdays, “Invisible Ben”

A tiny hummingbird lands on the lid of the gleaming grand piano you just wiped down with Lemon Lysol. The bird cries a single tear that slips down its feathers, falls into the piano’s soundboard, and melts with the tonewood. You can’t blame the small creature—if your eyes outweighed your brain, your eye juice would sing too.

Comme des Garçons, “888”

A tall glass of sarsparilla sweats condensation. Water pools around the base of the drink and makes a ring around the snake on a paper Chinese zodiac placemat underneath. Emerging out of the soft drink is a curly straw filled with bubbles that hover a brief distance and then pop. The bubbles reflect an elaborate table setting leafed in gold, and minute specular highlights reveal a broken window screen. Gossamer strands of a spider’s web connect the coarser fibers of the screen to the window frame. Caught in the web is a mosquito contemplating the scene from a position of sacrifice. Its compound eyes present a pixelated world-view that slowly dims to black.

Profumum, “Alba”

almond extract, swiss roll, scented pantyliner, envelope glue, kitten calendar, bra straps, security ink, mother’s milk, banana boat, bavarian cream, vaseline.

Diptyque, “Tam Dao”

Coral dawn casts its glow upon a mahogany piano. Dawn turns to dusk. Dusk turns to dust. Dust to dust. Aided by these rays, one can see minute particles of dust settling into fingerprints on the white keys of a beloved piano. In this rare light the black keys seem to recess into the background rather than rise higher than the ivory ones. I wonder what my metronome smells like?