Top Notes 
Cubeb
Gun powder
Gaiac wood
Heart Notes 
Tobacco
Frankincense
Cypriol
Galbanum
Base Notes 
Woody notes
Ash
Birch tar
Canary Islands juniper
Oud
Floyd
590 Reviews
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Floyd
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48
Three Charcoal Drawings Full of Shadows
When I wasn't wearing perfume, perhaps ash, I found myself haunted by three dark charcoal drawings, obscure, indistinct, smudged and full of shadows. I could not look away and everything else vanished.
In the first, I saw forest, clouds and wind, storm, fire and damp cold, reddish, bright like cubeb pepper, wildly swirling through lashing rain, smelled soot and dark furrows of flint in the charred wounds of the trees, split by flickering lightning, whose branches dipped into the black wet earth under the rumbling thunder.
The second drawing showed grim figures, shadows in the hoods of their cloaks, crouching in a circle on the bitter green foliage of a clearing in the same forest. They breathed citrus-spicy smoke of burning frankincense, smoldering the tar from a tobacco leaf, a gloomy column of smoke rising from their midst.
Finally, in the third, black water cascaded from a cliff at the edge of the forest. Here I found myself dressed in leather, sitting on coffin wood and ethereal needles, as I stared motionless across the chasm, the wind carrying the scent of burnt wood to me and the dark mist of the silent waterfall bringing down the thousand-gray aromas of ash, which the rain had washed from the charred trees and burnt soils and which now descended into cold cascades.
Only after several endlessly smoky hours did the vivid images from the leaves disappear, to a port in the subconscious, where Ashkazeichnungen have always fit in.
(With thanks to Gschpusi)
In the first, I saw forest, clouds and wind, storm, fire and damp cold, reddish, bright like cubeb pepper, wildly swirling through lashing rain, smelled soot and dark furrows of flint in the charred wounds of the trees, split by flickering lightning, whose branches dipped into the black wet earth under the rumbling thunder.
The second drawing showed grim figures, shadows in the hoods of their cloaks, crouching in a circle on the bitter green foliage of a clearing in the same forest. They breathed citrus-spicy smoke of burning frankincense, smoldering the tar from a tobacco leaf, a gloomy column of smoke rising from their midst.
Finally, in the third, black water cascaded from a cliff at the edge of the forest. Here I found myself dressed in leather, sitting on coffin wood and ethereal needles, as I stared motionless across the chasm, the wind carrying the scent of burnt wood to me and the dark mist of the silent waterfall bringing down the thousand-gray aromas of ash, which the rain had washed from the charred trees and burnt soils and which now descended into cold cascades.
Only after several endlessly smoky hours did the vivid images from the leaves disappear, to a port in the subconscious, where Ashkazeichnungen have always fit in.
(With thanks to Gschpusi)
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