Wrath

The first niche perfume I ever owned. Heady leather—not "new car" unless the car is a chariot owned by a god of the underworld—melts into syrupy suede upon which drops of anise nectar have accidentally showered. The may rose is shockingly potent and keeps things from feeling claustrophobic or weighty. If Marcel Proust's self-insert MC wore kohl eyeliner, if opioids were good for you to take every day, if the darkest parts of life were secretly the sweetest—this would be the way the world smelled.

My perfect scent, and that's coming from someone who only *loved* weird, just-south-of-off-putting aquatics and petrichor types until I met Spiritcask. I'm not a boozy enthusiast, nor do I tend to like vanilla, but this is a simply but specifically perfect take on both genres that smells like the lit-from-within joy I have not experienced for more than a few rarefied moments since becoming an adult, much less in an adult winter. I can't imagine a better winter scent to linger in your knits all season—I left a scarf doused in it behind on a date and, though the date went nowhere, the person fell in love with Spiritcask. It's extremely hard to overdo but lasts quite a while, especially on fabric as mentioned—Spiritcask is saving me from wintertime abjection.

The almost (but not quite) fishy tang of fresh kelp, the minerality of a salt-caked storm drain (if such things were free of any trace of muck), the near-freezing sweetness of a morning on the docks in Pacific fog. Compulsively wearable, exciting, transportive, exhilarating. A new favorite scent that I am itching to buy in full bottle form.