DEV #3: The Inevitable Olympic Orchids Artisan Perfumes 2012

The deeper we pushed into this river into the darkness on our unwavering search for the most unfathomable fantasy, the densest fog, the most occult clearing of an enchanted forest, the most enigmatic rain of tangible substances, the most secretive regions of our associations, the most surreal scenes, the more bizarre became what unfolded along the banks of the ever-narrowing, yet increasingly numerous tributaries, until we finally, at the end of a river arm, arrived in the dark heart of a niche, encountering the inevitable.
Nellie, the old wooden boat, had become stuck in the murky swamp. The few grasses that had grown where the dark land supposedly began were smoldering in a faint smoldering fire. It smelled of burnt flesh and fat-laden, hissing wood embers. I believed I was hallucinating the outlines of a shadow sprinkling paprika over the fire when the immense scent of a gigantic clove numbed me like the unwanted cause of a toothache. A cinnamon leaf, which had taken on the four-legged form of the myrtle plant, forced my face into the moldy mud, mutated to colossal size, where I had to endure an almost endless monologue about doubts concerning the existing order system in the scent of herbaceous sharp spices. All the plants of this place, the trees and their blood had been subjugated by the cinnamon leaf, which was convinced it was a clove. They were all dressed in sharp, moldy mud, living in fear of being seasoned like the grasses by the river and the enemy flesh in the smoldering fire.
I gave up, I sat there, indistinct and still in the posture of a meditating Buddha, staring at the work of the inevitable for many seemingly endless hours. I thought of Yatagan's words. It was disgusting. I was fascinated. Nothing changed. It could no longer be changed.

(With thanks to Sea Mermaid)