Patchouli
Vanilla
Benzoin
Cardamom
Castoreum
Himalayan cedar
Hop
Tar
Cinnamon
Honey absolute
Sandalwood
Tonka bean
Floyd
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Floyd
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45
Death Valley Highway
Everything is shimmering, flowing in heavy waves through the scorching expanses of the valley. Were there warning signs? The road seems to swim straight into the infinite. The axle of the rusty Russian pedal car groans monotonously. I smell the remnants of oil on the chain, like the rubber tires melting in the tar, which moves downhill in slow motion and steams robustly like a lava flow, consuming everything that still lived, the freshness of hops, the fine spice, and beaver in silver stripes.
The cedars that provide shade are burning in my fever on the horizon. And the sky hangs honey-yellow and high, coloring for a long time before it falls, yet only rippling in heat-hazy threads above the liquid road. It is the filter of my sunglasses, giving the glowing tar a touch of warmth. I smile. Thinking of a beeswax candle in the oil tank. And while the earth also burns around, the beaver stripes and car tires swirl spices and cinnamon in the sand, carried far away by the desert wind into a black bread with benzoin, a mirage on the highway, somewhere in Death Valley.
(With thanks to Lucy55)
The cedars that provide shade are burning in my fever on the horizon. And the sky hangs honey-yellow and high, coloring for a long time before it falls, yet only rippling in heat-hazy threads above the liquid road. It is the filter of my sunglasses, giving the glowing tar a touch of warmth. I smile. Thinking of a beeswax candle in the oil tank. And while the earth also burns around, the beaver stripes and car tires swirl spices and cinnamon in the sand, carried far away by the desert wind into a black bread with benzoin, a mirage on the highway, somewhere in Death Valley.
(With thanks to Lucy55)
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