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Floyd
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The warm waves twilight
The coastal fog is bright here, hesperidic, as if it were full of fluorescent citrus drops, it shines brightly over the land and is at the same time grey from dust and cool, as if it came from a nearby chapel. The sea is certainly wide, I don't hear the calm rolling, don't smell salt, only fog for a few minutes
Then the amber rises in the haze, which begins to turn reddish, the lemons in blood oranges enchanting, hiding deep inside an inclusion, like a fur almost, lost in amber. How old might this heavy flotsam be, that it lost all sweetness, dragging itself musty almost over sandalwood, which seems brittle underneath? For two three hours I watch speechlessly the spectacle of the citrically pulsating mist, blood orange drops of labdanum, shimmering black honey gradually pervades the archaic amber, which, tamed by the dry sandalwood, shimmers brownish, almost caramel-like.
Then the sea comes, wave after wave rolls over sand of patchouli the dark vanilla, floats away piece by piece first driftwood then amber together with tart labdanum, washes around me for another three to four hours soft and warm.
**
Sandal Amber lives for me from his well harmonizing contradictions: The Indian incense, which contrasts citrically brightly with the slightly animalistic musty amber, which in turn later, tamed by labdanum and sandalwood, sinks into patchouli-darkened vanilla, remaining rather close from the beginning and lasting a good seven to nine hours.
(With thanks to Deadsoul)
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