Black Musk Illuminum

The scent has done something wrong. It is aloof and deafeningly isolates itself. Shrill, hard musk lashes out, biting the Flui. Everything that amplifies intensity, endurance, and pain is allowed with BM. The scent is so twisted, so diffuse, so extraordinarily apart in both the most brutal and the most striking sense, that one cannot escape its effect once it has been smelled, no matter what one might think of the fragrance. BM subjects the wearer to enormous pressure, under which one nearly breaks. Yet once the scent has escaped the bottle, there is no turning back, and one wonders, “why”? Why has it come to this? One wants to sneak away from the situation, but it doesn’t work; BM always catches up with you.

Uncertainty is known to be mentally exhausting, and so is BM, because one does not know whether the extraordinarily thrilling situation will improve or not. One hopes for improvement, for help, for anything that could make the scent more balanced, and normatively speaking: beautify it.

Frankincense, civet, myrrh, and musk rage furiously. If the scent were audible, one would go deaf; if visible, one would go blind. It poisons and spits around, out of sheer frenzy. It is also so unfinished, simply undercooked with so much loud clamor and deafening thunderclaps, that the scent should have been tamed a bit more before being released into the wild. BM walks on the edge of unacceptability. But does art have to be bearable? No, fortunately not. Would the Flui want to wear BM? Well, right now it does, but does it want to try again? Yes, at least until my 2 or 3ml are empty. With all reservations, I find it commendable to consider an overwhelmingly animalistic scent rather than an overwhelmingly sweet, synthetically subpar sweet or fresh scent, but rather a brutal animal that is also too much of a good thing and breaks and leaves all boundaries behind. Of course, the opening is shrill and bright and loses a bit of drama and calamity over time, but it remains a fighter that always pulls all the stops to feel itself and communicate with the outside world.

The ingredients are simply there; they do not complement each other, they do not harmonize, they do not alternate, they are simply there. Not less and not more. I can make out the musk, the frankincense, and a brutal civet trace; soothing and caressing vanilla is absent in the Flui. Myrrh also presents itself in its roughest possible form. All of this clumps, tears, and rips, screams, roars, and does not stop. One can hardly believe the disaster, yet I also find such a ruthless scent appealing at times, as it leaves the conventional behind and frightens and disturbs the wearer.