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Weight | 1 oz |
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$28.00
Hendrick Avercamp
Snow-covered stroopwafels, ice-rimed brown leaves, and a swish of boot leather.
Out of stock
Weight | 1 oz |
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The cry of the cicada
Gives us no sign
That presently they will die
– Matsuo Bashō, translated by William George Aston
This year, the forests of the eastern United States will be abuzz (pun intended) with the concurrent emergence of two separate broods, the 17-year-old Brood XIII and 13-year-old Brood XIX. A cicada extravaganza like this one hasn’t been seen since 1803!
A scent fit for a Swarmageddon: soft, dark soil, black pepper, tonka bean, decaying leaves, licorice root, ambrette seed, sweet vetiver, bourbon vanilla, oakmoss, brown labdanum, elm bark, vegetable leather, clary sage, 13-year aged patchouli, 17-year aged patchouli, and two bright red specs of dragon’s blood resin.
Art: Kingfisher, Cicada, and Willow Tree, Qing Dynasty, China
“There was a reason he hid me in Lakeside, wasn’t there? There was a reason nobody should have been able to find me here.”
Hinzelmann said nothing. He unhooked a heavy black poker from its place on the wall, and he prodded at the fire with it, sending up a cloud of orange sparks and smoke. “This is my home,” he said, petulantly. “It’s a good town.”
Perfect wholesomeness: green grass, summer daisies, spring daffodils, and bake sale cookies bought with blood and terror, all frozen beneath a sheet of thick black ice.
What global warming? Slivers of ice to cool things down, lavender and hops flower to soothe the nerves.
Proceeds benefit getting the goddamn AC fixed in the front parlor at BPAL so Teddy and Claire don’t sweat to death and we don’t roast people alive at Lunacy.
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