Mlleghoul

A tender comfort in the annihilating face of the aloof suns, the indifferent cosmos, the total dark sublime. A small silhouette emerging from deep shadow, arms extended skyward toward infinity, engulfed in a lullaby of sepia and softness and warmth. Sweet offerings from home planets, celestial pastries, caramelized starlight, golden toasted nebula dust; gossamer sweets of crystallized petals, preserved blossoms, fruiting flower essences, and orchard nectar suspended in jellied orbs of weightless honey. Souvenirs from stellar nurseries, wafer crumbs and fragmented nougat, half-remembered songs hummed against the void, rations for the long journey home.

I am doll parts
Bad skin, doll heart
It stands for ‘knife'
For the rest of my life

Fatal temporality in a pale pink slip dress, frayed lace hanging by threads. Kinderwhore but not really, now not anymore-- a tragic, beautiful mess, elegiac-grunge. Rich jasmine/lime vintage expectations, lush vanilla coconut doll parts, sweet plastic ache doing anything-anything to feel something different, something real. Rhubarb discordant, off-kilter, jangling/janky knife's edge self-destructive poetry of sour survival and want. The girl was always doomed. But bitches, she's still here. She's still fucking here.

Seminalis conjures a malodorous nebula of intentional discomfort - woody-musky, creamy-milky amberette-sandalwood that chokes every molecule of breathable air in your personal bubble. Suffocating, claustrophobic, the insidious intrusion of someone who knows exactly how close is too close and crosses that line anyway, transforming intimate proximity into a power play through malice and deliberate predation. This isn't the primal biological magnetism Orto Parisi's marketing suggests, but something far more sinister and actually far more gross - not the stench but the suffocating whiff of someone crowding your personal space. The creep who leans in too close and calls it magnetism, who calls your discomfort 'tension' and your retreat "playing hard to get." Someone who corners you against walls in small spaces, follows too closely on the street, continues conversations you're clearly trying to end. Someone who remembers details you never shared, shows up where you are "coincidentally." Someone who gets off on violating boundaries because they've learned that making people squirm can feel like power, who frames invasion as intimacy and calls obsession devotion.

They say that moths who approach the kindred flame meant for them alone emerge not as ash but something jeweled, hollowed. Leathery wings dusty with fine powder, sweet resin, the flame amber-bright and forever preserved, golden liqueur burning without consuming. Each moth recognizes its own flame; instinct, yearning, warm spice that fits a wingspan precisely, honeyed glow. Custom-carved, waiting in shadows like perfectly formed holes in night's fabric. The desperate ones surrender to incineration, their remains falling like crushed petals and sooty silk. But the rare ones, the thieves among them, learn to pocket light itself and carry it home, their stolen fire echoing endlessly within soft chambers, transformed but breathing, burnished light cradled in a charred, earthy embrace.

My immediate reaction of Prophecy: "this is an incense for the GIRLIES." Not austere or monastic or churchy or smoky-sacred; this is more of a "burn this stuff in the background of your IG reels while Hozier sings something brooding about desire and divinity and you arrange rose quartz crystals on your nightstand" vibe. Pastel tarot deck spirituality. De-saturated dragon's blood. A dreaming without a dreamer, that ethereal mystical atmosphere floating free, no deep spiritual practice required. An outer light reflected or an inner light unveiled, either way it's been retouched for social media, aesthetic enlightenment run through a vintage Lightroom filter. Creamy, almost fruity, almost floral incense—except not quite incense; aureate suffusion that smells like how luxe body cream feels. Whipped honey vibe; you could take a juicy bite of this tawny chunk of resin. Baby's first incense, but I can see how it becomes A Whole Vibe, build an entire aesthetic around it. The DSH site notes that it's a bestseller, which makes perfect sense...it works well enough for what it's trying to be, but it's too sweet, too fluffy for me. My prophecies need a bit more doom and gloom.