PERFUME AREA

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Byredo, “Rose of No Man’s Land”

Imagine a rose underwater. (But not rose water.) Between you and me, a vast pool of maybe blue. A single rose floats slowly in a protected orb, as if it were the only glimmering oxygen in outer space. Back on earth, the world is flooding, even in millionaires’ underground doomsday bunkers. Every dance, every marriage, every birth, continues on watery stages of some apocalypse. A full moon illuminates pink petals bathed in chlorinated droplets.

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Byredo, “Infloresence”

A clear angelic wave harmonizes with a soap bubble. Everything is bright green and light, blinding you slightly, but in a linear way. Spring is here and it’s the 1990s, and the day is young. Your mother reminds you that tiny bell shaped blossoms play an important role in your life as it begins to lightly rain outside. Simplicity is sweet and energetic, you sing to yourself, celebrating this realization. You never need to surprise god. Heaven is simple.

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Frama, “Komorebi”

Powder dance. Laundry. Roses fall like snow and dissolve into paper. Everything is clean and synthetic and subtly sweet, even sunlight. Apparently "komorebi" is "sunlight through the trees" in Japanese. It's not a word, it's a feeling. Like effervescent piano, it's a forest light dance evaporating into cotton.

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Vilhelm Parfumerie, “Black Citrus”

An ordinary British man in a tuxedo pulls a gleaming black piano through the sand. He came from ten years in the future to kill you, but first he must play a song dedicated to the cityscape. Dark green, dripping vegetation clasps his silver feet.

Art at its wildest best is so wildly elegant, shocking yet subtle, that death is as present as life. The pianist's cool, otherworldly eyes begin to cry softly. A stabbing tremolo reminds you that you still have a week before you turn 30. Salty ghosts start circling, while a white empty-ish mist softens the pain slightly.

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Aesop, “Hwyl”

Behind heavy velvet curtains, a deep forest breathes. Moist summer tree juice pools in the black soil. It's night. You breathe in a tree bath. Besides the moss effect whispering your private key and the soil bubbles' popping providing an unreliable rhythm, sending the past air into the present, it's completely silent. You love performing privacy in the comfort of a dark forest even though you miss your cedar-lined hot tub with floating lilypads and light-up ladybugs at home. Within a deep tree hole, a tiny magenta parasite sings in perfect harmonics, all registers chanting, "I love mystery!" Thankfully, there's a special word in a foreign language spoken by a wise owl for describing this very feeling: opening up the deep, dark unknown for show-and-tell. Mysteries are family.

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In’n’out Fragrances, “Almoist”

My solar-powered flower, chloroplast-less faux automaton. Sun has bleached the expression from your face, but at least it’s worn wrinkleless. “Wow, you’re smooth…XD” Looking at you makes me so thirsty that I drink deeply from a water glass that still has dish soap in it. A bubble pops inside my second brain, hemorrhaging rainbow and hydrolyzed collagen. I’m vivisected so a student of écorché can sketch my leaky gut on a big pad. I’m a monkey. I’m a puppy. I’m your study buddy.


Six Flavors, “1 cinnamaldehyde”

The red plastic hand­shaped chair faithfully recreates human phalanges. The only aberration is a deep indentation on the thumbnail to place a drink. To be a faithful humanist, after all, one must be liberal with depiction of the figure to accommodate a sitter’s spill­proof gesticulation, punctuated by sips.

In colder months, the hand­shaped chair is wrapped in plastic to protect it from glitter that flakes off three Christmas decorations hung above. The ornaments are in the shape of saxophones: Alto, tenor, baritone. The reeds are replaced with sticks of cinnamon gum. Assuming you have proper embouchure, assume the position, and: Inhale sweetness. Exhale a big red orb.

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Six Flavors, “2 decenyl cyclopentatone”

Your perfect, everlasting energy has lead you here. A tropical fruit wreath is placed over your shoulders. Your sweat is sweet: people line up to taste the byproduct of a champion. A soft apricot finds your mouth, floating at eye level. Flashbacks to this moment already sparkle in your future memory. A modern bubble issues from your nose and ascends into the warm air.

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Six Flavors, “3 cyclotene (3-­methylcyclopentane­-1,2-­dione)”

A golden apple reflects a bonfire used to cook a baby pig and the night sky that ordained it. A palomino stallion, whose rider is caked in mud and drying nearby, bats away a mosquito carrying both their blood. As a party trick, a prize­winning chef fires her butane torch in the air and caramelizes the mosquito. The topping lands on her plate, like dust from the starry night sky.

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Six Flavors, “4 isoamyl acetate”

An edible ink. Various thermochromic various vessels can be impregnated with this banana­like odor on demand. If in an urn, add oatmeal and freeze­dried clock gears for a satisfying snack that changes from magenta to deep purple, as glaciers melt in the North, and islands emerge in the space between sludge and prism.

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