Additional information
Weight | 1 oz |
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$29.00
Our classic October perfume blend, chilled to the max! Inspired, in part, by my heater being busted at home. A really, really, REALLY cold, dry autumn wind, a rustle of red leaves, and a touch of smoke and sap in the air.
Art: The Pumpkin Harvest (1897) by Giovanni Segantini
Weight | 1 oz |
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A faded snapshot of patchouli-stained peasant blouses, soft suede boots, and smoke.
Good Gods, what a night that was,
The bed was so soft, and how we clung,
Burning together, lying this way and that,
Our uncontrollable passions
Flowing through our mouths.
If I could only die that way,
I’d say goodbye to the business of living.
Olive blossom, honey, smoky vanilla, cinnamon, jasmine, sandalwood, and champaca flower.
“What a piece of work is a man!”
“What is this quintessence of dust?”
The passing: beeswax and smoke, yellowed paper and well-worn leather books, droplets of spilled ink, faded incense, blood-tinged salty tears, and the metal of the knife that skewers that illiterate zombie philistine’s portrait.
“…Our kind of people, we are…” He waved the cigarillo about, as if using it to hunt for a word, then stabbing forward with it. “…exclusive. We’re not social. Not even me. Not even Bacchus. Not for long. We walk by ourselves or we stay in our own little groups. We do not play well with others. We like to be adored and respected and worshiped—me, I like them to be tellin’ tales about me, tales showing my cleverness. It’s a fault, I know, but it’s the way I am. We like to be big. Now, in these shabby days, we are small. The new gods rise and fall and rise again. But this is not a country that tolerates gods for long. Brahma creates, Vishnu preserves, Shiva destroys, and the ground is clear for Brahma to create once more.”
Memories of myrrh and gold, and the dying smoke of a snuffed cigarillo.
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