Mikadomann

I am writing my first comment here after many months because I believe that today I have understood a fragrance as art for the first time.
I lie on the couch by myself. Just me and 2. Nawab of Oudh Intensivo...

Now then:
He who travels well, who travels in the imagination...
He is not hampered by luggage.
Time and place do not restrict him.

The narrow streets of the medina. Ages ago or yesterday. In the maze of narrow streets the little shop. No door. The wooden threshold. Toothless smiles and millions of wrinkles around the sparkling eyes
On silver matt trays pastries and sweet delicacies. The smell comes before the taste. Even before I taste the sweet filling, the scent of cardamom, dates, orange water and cinnamon wafts around me

Cobblestone streets, wet from the cold London rain. As he passes the window, in the corner of his eye, the face of the whore. No longer young. Powdered white, On her cheeks rouge - almost circles. The eyes meet briefly. An attempt, though she knows there is nothing to be gained. At the back of the table in the poor room, an amazing bouquet. White flowers, an orchid - and a rose. Almost a circle. Like the rouge on her cheeks

Granada. The light, beguiling beauty of the Nazarites. The blankets of stone as airy as lace. And from the gardens of the Alhambra, dark roses and laurels blowing on the wind. Was there the Sultan's laughter? And there was the laughter of his wife?

Then, when the evening falls and the air is cool, there is the dark beauty. Looking and looking. And only in the imagination is the scent of his skin created. After work is done and ready for the adventure night

The next morning. The narrow streets of the medina. Ages ago or yesterday. The wooden threshold. A beggar boy earns himself a dinar. He sweeps the threshold and in the light swirls on shavings of wood and dust of dried roses.