Eviaano

Bitter paper, packed as a pile, in a dramatic fall to the cold metal floor or the empty paper mill in retirement, full to the brim with goods left behind?

"Type Writer | Parfumerie Particulière" functions as a snapshot of a drama of metallic technology falling in slow motion or that of a baroque still life reinterpreted in the age of industrialization.

Manchester, England, 1904.

A typewriter is developed to the pinnacle of inventiveness. An assembly line version for large orders is created.

Write! Write! - Two inventions later, nobody wants to use it any more. It is closed.

All the appliances and unfinished goods are left standing quietly. Nobody cares about them.

The blue daylight, filled with cold, reaches through the dull windows of the factory.

Brushed steel dramatizes the cold to the climax as a reflection.

Occasionally a sheet of paper falls slowly to the floor. A stack rarely.

But today is the day-before the bang, he has to indulge in a slow-motion stunt, which ultimately lands with a loud crash in a barrel of dried-up blue ink.

The story is well told-but the author occasionally gets the scent wrong, which makes it less believable.

This scenario of the world coming to an end not only knocks the smeller's socks off but also through the ceiling and, if there is none above, at least up to cloud 4 and through it.

A burnt stack of tires - freshly tarred road - exhaust fumes from the rubber factory - a dystopian wasteland landscape.

Deep black smoke from the maws of the greedy steam towers-orange smoke from the dusty ground.

Stacked oil barrels, one wants to escape into the poisoned waters of freedom.

Even the dirtiest, gray, dreary nuclear power plant cooling tower gasps for air, struggling for life.

"Climate change has permanently devastated the earth", sounds a wooden, dying tone from a flat-screen TV with a crack, which dies before it can finish the sentence of the newsreader, who is already dead at this point.

The sky burns into the horizon even more fiery red than before, before the scorching fireball that once called itself the sun kisses it. A dead bush blows away like a dandelion to black dust in the infernal wind.

In the end, the suspiciously silent night is left behind in a hot desert of rusted metal frames & the last survivor of this primeval catastrophe puts an end to human existence with a cheerful squat jump into a toxic lake so that he no longer has to endure the scorched soles of his feet.

5:32 pm, a dark, late winter afternoon.

The Winter Fairytale Childhood Express arrives, all aboard please!

Opulent cinnamon clouds the mind with sweetness like an untamed whirlwind.

An olfactory veil of sugar plays the companion and continues the fragrant journey with honey.

An ideal dream of gourmand & winter candy ecstasy comes true in the nose of the connoisseur.

A feeling of childhood spreads; is it rice pudding with sugar and cinnamon?
Unfortunately, the journey on the winter fairytale childhood express ends here, the question remains unanswered.

All disembarked - at the stop, all that remains is a glimpse of the rear of the train shrouded in cold steam, spraying the less sweet Brother Herod.

After six hours, unfortunately, this last hint of the childhood dream is gone & the inner boy is left with a journey into the past and a longing for more.

No poem, no word painting for the scent.
It just needs to be noted again how much this fragrance stands out among the designers.

It is sweet, it is spicy, it smells sticky.
It wants to be worn by you; by you handsome man. And if you're not, you'll still be the most captivating, if you dare.

Call it toffee, caramel, cinnamon: we all know what it smells like when we think about it.

You, dear "Emporio Armani - Stronger With You Intensely | Giorgio Armani" not only lasts 16 hours on my skin as if it were made for you, no, you also project an equally overwhelming sillage to the bitter end.

You don't just change, you are also different.
Spicier at the beginning, boozy & deeply sweet at the end. Almost like your darker brother "Tony Iommi Monkey Special | XerJoff".

Everyone here likes to smell you, my dear. You are different.

The soft cloud of white wood looks like a dream.

We stand on the white cloud in front of a structure of marble columns while light smoke rises from the ground.

Straight ahead, Aphrodite is enthroned, firmly rooted in a copper throne, ensnared in the white fur of an ermine. A copper goblet full of tangy plum rolls gently down her chunky fingers.

You take one last drag of the white smoke deep into your lungs before putting your foot forward.

The floor is soft, Aphrodite forces you to her womanhood & steam envelops the entire event.