All4You

Baccarat Rouge 540 smells like the exact moment your grandmother stopped recognizing your face, that flicker of confusion crystallized into sugar and set on fire, the scent of beautiful deterioration, of synapses misfiring...

Louis came down from the mountain wearing seventeen suitcases stitched from burning incense and the screams of Pakistani sand dunes, his mustache a geranium that had seen God and refused to apologize,...

He came through the wallpaper like mold, reeking of labdanum and remorse. Giggling in Morse code, he whispered: you built this cathedral of rot to summon me. And I did. I painted my house with fluids unnamed by God. The walls throbbed like...

The monkey doctors are back. They scrub their hands in oud and menthol. They whisper anesthesia through cracked amber bottles. Their surgical thumbs hum hymns in reverse. They uncap my skull— pour benzoin where memory used to breathe. London...

The LIWA bottle sits there amber god-throat screaming saffron hymns through my cerebral cortex while the CATS yes the CATS with their gourd-skulls bloated pumpkin-headed witnesses stare with eyes like melted pennies and I'm telling...

Everything smells like scorched honey and bullshit. I swear a leaf just crawled out of a dead dog’s jaw, talking politics like it’s the end of the world. a speaking socialist shows —shirt half torn, eyes full of lighter fluid—balancing...

I was in tumi and dancing around the staff trying to be Fred Astaire. During my manic mango I was trying to get the tumi lock off the bottle. I must of pulled to hard and tumi juice flew everywhere. An associate got doused, my hands got some on them,...

They whispered our name again, chewing on the syllables like sugar cubes soaked in something electric. I licked the leftover sound from the wall — tasted fate, or maybe mustard. The microwave was still humming, still dancing that mad tango...

In a side corridor that only appears on certain afternoons, a pipe of blessed water crossed a line of abandoned altar wine, dripped through a vent into a stainless-steel pail waiting for routine papal business. A tired caretaker slipped,...

Smoky bears a striking resemblance to two controversial niche compositions: Tuerd from the House of Sentir la François, and Stool by Maison Arrse. All three share that deeply animalic, earthy profile: smoky leather intermingled with raw, almost fecal...

It arrived on a Tuesday that tasted like copper and broken promises. The bottle—sleek, pretentious, shaped like a tombstone-pizza delivered by the perfumer. Same address. Different dimension. The pizza screamed the rosary. The bottle whispered...

It started at six. Not six o’clock—six as a temperature, six as a diagnosis, six as the number tattooed on the underside of my tongue. They said it was just a bottle of perfume. They lied. It was an ankle...