Top Notes 
Canary Islands juniper
Bergamot
Cinnamon
Grapefruit
Mandarin orange
Heart Notes 
Tuberose
Clove
Coconut
Iris
Base Notes 
Animalic notes
Atlas cedar
Suede
Castoreum
Chinese toon
Floyd
572 Reviews
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Floyd
Top Review
48
Page Boy Motel
Monotone moon landscapes, past and gone, hours of dull wandering through the rugged red rock deserts of Arizona, in the west the spiritual gorges of the Grand Canyon have sunk, after all the violence of the images, the meditative massacre, what more could come. South of Lake Powell, above the dam lies my tired motel. Page Boy.
The light brown door is losing its color. Shabby chic. From the parking lot, I open the access to a worn room. Warm desert air blows from the dam through the space. Someone left the door to the gravel garden open on the other side. A hint of Hesperides flees outside, perhaps a room freshener. Someone has smoked here. Black dry tobacco, the cheap stuff. Maybe also some cedar juniper. One can't imagine what the desert does to people.
Warm wax stains. Softly they root deep in the tattered carpet, burying brownish blooms beneath them, exuding the fleshy scent into the fabric. I smell the iris butter on the bed, smeared on the sheet with coconut fat. Now and then the room still breathes the smoke. Small clouds of cloves too. I don't know where they come from.
I sit in a leather armchair and stare tiredly out the window. Thirsting, the trees in the garden twist their branches, knotty and dry, there hasn't been rain here for months, only animals, how is one supposed to survive. After hours, I seem to have arrived. In my thoughts, I have laid the bed sheet over the leather and sleep in the soft wax flower bouquet, the smoke and the animals have also dissipated, harmoniously the images have intertwined, in the brown worn carpet.
(With thanks to Deadsoul)
The light brown door is losing its color. Shabby chic. From the parking lot, I open the access to a worn room. Warm desert air blows from the dam through the space. Someone left the door to the gravel garden open on the other side. A hint of Hesperides flees outside, perhaps a room freshener. Someone has smoked here. Black dry tobacco, the cheap stuff. Maybe also some cedar juniper. One can't imagine what the desert does to people.
Warm wax stains. Softly they root deep in the tattered carpet, burying brownish blooms beneath them, exuding the fleshy scent into the fabric. I smell the iris butter on the bed, smeared on the sheet with coconut fat. Now and then the room still breathes the smoke. Small clouds of cloves too. I don't know where they come from.
I sit in a leather armchair and stare tiredly out the window. Thirsting, the trees in the garden twist their branches, knotty and dry, there hasn't been rain here for months, only animals, how is one supposed to survive. After hours, I seem to have arrived. In my thoughts, I have laid the bed sheet over the leather and sleep in the soft wax flower bouquet, the smoke and the animals have also dissipated, harmoniously the images have intertwined, in the brown worn carpet.
(With thanks to Deadsoul)
39 Comments
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