More lesser saints...

For those wondering what these lesser saints are, I explain it here.

http://www.parfumo.com/Users/GothicHeart/Blog/Arti...

So here are fourteen more of them. Seven for girls and seven for boys. One for each day of the week. Since finding a couple wearing any of their possible combinations has become rarer than a good fragrance launched after 2000, I think that if ever happen on any (couple, not fragrance), I'll be more than yare to become their best man, if they're not already married...

Bombastic and flamboyant and not giving a damn. Coldly indifferent to what she considered as trivial and down-to-earth matters, thus 99,5% of them all. The perfect olfactory analogous of a despotic empress.

The green and bitter pshyche of a neglected child. If you ever wondered how Picasso would look in 3-D, well, there you go. The only bottle more fitting for a niche than for a dressing table. Every cap was painted by hand. Every spray was a killer. Unique and unrepeatable, both in body and soul.

Roller blades and bubble gums. Fame and Flashdance. Perms and headbands. Fresh sweat and stale dreams.

If there was one perfume expected to be found in a goth girl's boudoir, this would be it. Kooky roses and musty incense, with a dirty spicy undercurrent. Oh, and a packaging to die for. Coming from a house famous for its naughty lingerie with a certain vintage-bourlesque touch, it lives up to its name.

Running by a river under a bleak sky in the first days of winter. No, not for sport. She had something to remember, but it's lost in the echo of her steps. Maybe it was the reason why she's running. A perfect equilibrium of cold air and warm breaths, battling each other in a overshadowing forest.

What will happen if instead putting powder on your nose, you put it inside it. Very beautiful lace-clad bottle, shaped not unlike an old grenade. Loaded with powder of course. It went unnoticed in its days, and today, perhaps out of some vengeful tantrum, it demands a small fortune to demonstrate its explosive mettle.

Liquid lust in one of the most beautiful bottles ever. It sucks the air out of every place it storms. It will make a man weak at the knees, not because of anticipating sex, but because of being scared to death of losing she who wears it. And when a man's knees get weak, what's more fitting than kneeling before she who weakened them?

Something to comfort the one wearing it and alert everyone else. One of the cases where "discontinued" looks absurd and irrational the most. Hadn't Russisch Leder by Johann Maria Farina been around, I'd declare Background the best masculine fragrance ever made in Germany. Hands down.

A naked woman is lolling languidly in her sheets while dawn is cracking outside the huge windows. An airline pilot's image is slowly fading in the scene, using the said windows as a frame. He smirks and raises his hat's brim lightly, in a gesture which might mean either "farewell" or "till next time". His image changes into a Jumbo Jet taking off. Donna Summer is singing "Love to love you baby" in the background and my ten years old self sitting in front of the black and white TV decides that he wants to be a pilot.

The heat and humidity of the Peruvian rainforest. The mesmerising stare of the serpent's eyes. The sweetish smell of exotic flowers decaying. One of the best attemtpts in what was going to be known as "celebrity fragrances" in the future. One of the most stunning uses of rose in masculine fragrances ever. One of the darkest corners of the fragrance world. One of a kind.

Someone has described it as an angry male gorilla wearing a tuxedo. Need I say more?

It's bottle leaves no room for misunderstandings. If Havana fancies itself as a quality cigar, this one is Fidel Castro smoking it.

Just like riding an early '80s motorcycle in mid-July, touring around the Mediterranean. Hot stones, leather on sweat, dusty plains, bitter flora and a viscous oily quality which makes it stick on everything it touches. Even on memories.

And last but not least, two bonus scents for February 29th. Not in the sense that they're worth wearing once every four years, but to cover every option, no matter how seldom it occurs.

Elegance. Opulence. Lushness. Impenitent excess. Gossamer silk. Shiny blades. Mystic skies. Spicy air. Morning mist in a bamboo forest. Millennia-old temples on mountain peaks. Febrile dreams. Amative glances. Sybaritic debauchery. Muffled sighs. Asja oh Asja, what are you doing to me?

"You give me ice, my heart will burn.

You give me fire, my heart will shatter."

It should be called Event Horizon, since no more quality has escaped the black hole that Guy Laroche has become after it was launched. The last truly memorable scent of an once legendary house. The difference between a warm sea and a cold ocean. The difference between Flipper and Moby Dick. The difference between a peaceful fisherman enjoying the light breeze on the quay and a braced mechanic on an oil rig, trying to survive the storm. Horizon leaves the decision of who and what you are entirely up to you.

Living in an Eastern Orthodox country, my temples of every kind are traditionally decorated with icons on their walls. Thus my perfume temple couldn't look any different. Much cherished icons of my past are everywhere, waiting for an affectionate glance, a tender caress and a loving thought to reach them. They are my shelter and the place to rest my eyes on. They are my ambrosial sentinels in my land of ancient gods. They are my naked feelings and my sea of memories. They are me and they are always there...