Decloak

Introductory question: After the Bible, which book was the most printed in the world in the 19th century? ... Correct!

Sonach erschaue one of the flacon noble Tricolor: gold, marbled white, amber glazing. Now the argus-eyed pan on the for the sake of haptic people rotatable (open - close, open - close, open - close ...: hard to let go of it), extremely delicate push button; nothing less than the venerable Colosseum he is modeled, with its namely not at all accidental curvature. And if the "aquarium" should be flooded but once empty, so this bottle will give the most beautiful showcase for your most cherished jewelry.

Demotorized chariot races everyone likes, even if he just does not return home from a galley punishment - and this is the fragrance for it! A distant chord or two of Terre d'Hermes and even Gucci Guilty Absolute pour Homme may play into it, yet Bvlgari Man Terrae Essence is extremely unique, sheerly niche. To my delicate nose, like a precursor to oud, only much more grounded and by no means a barnyard scent. In possession of that liquid olfactory gold may henceforth the oud barbarians confidently throw the lions in the Circus Maximus to the grub.

For how do Elysian fields smell, how does the sweat of a victorious charioteer (no one hurries the horses more carefully and skilfully around broken axles), how does the victory over, among others, the proud Roman Messala smell, how does the conversion by Jesus smell, how does the renunciation of any revenge and similar trivialities smell: exactly like Terrae Essence!

Now the Dufttwässerchen may not quite radiate to the back row of the 150,000 to 250,000 spectators ("Zuriecher"?) seizing Circus Maximus, but well perceptible it is all the same and treats its wearer, without taking a great transformation, his 4, 5 rich hours of enjoyment.


After the weak Man Glacial Essence, the rather mediocre Man Wood Essence, the house of Bvlgari has in 2021 unlogen rausgekoffert one. A fully unschwuchteliger (for forgiveness!), Genuinely masculine, never before seen earthly fragrance scent.

Three noses have come together to bottle this fragrance - and if it is commonly said that many cooks spoil the broth, one must clearly say here: A fourth nose was missing! Now La Nuit de L'Homme is not a halfling, but it is a seven-eighths thing. Somehow unfinished and therefore very resistible. So it's not surprising that it's more or less officially recommended here to pimp the mild fragrance weakling by means of the incomparably more voluminous Le Mâle Le Parfum. Night fragrances, of course, which do not last as long as day fragrances, but so short and uneventful can be no night that this quite inconsequential brew still experiences the first cockcrow.

What surprises me colossally is the Parfumo ranking. The rank 13 (as of today) among all men's fragrances, whose seriousness can that be!!? Supposedly THE dating perfume par excellence, only how bespinnwebt you have to be!? Perhaps this refers exclusively to the dating portal of Gundel Gaukeley? As we all know, Gundel Gaukeley can transform herself into other people (in order to press loud maximum ratings into their names?), her favourite colour is pitch black, which fits to this monster of hexagonal plastic lids, with which one could sail dry-footed over all seven seas. But Gundel's favourite animal is the bull (it's in the word itself), her favourite scent is consequently musk and her favourite plant is the stinkhorn ... Even if we want to exclude Gundel as the culprit of having bewitched the ominous 13, it can nevertheless only have happened with witchcraft! The 40ml ordered by me want to be used up in any case only once, where the fragrance may settle among an estimated 100 fragrances in my arsenal so around place 50.

Sometimes you're here quite nicely fooled, can that be?

The scent drums. (Sage, cocoa, incense.)

Flaconic colors unmistakably pointing to the realm of flames. Lit by fire. No, you can't fight such olfactory explosions either, that heavy and cloying breath fogging you in! In the dugout: pull your chin tighter to your chest! Offer less nose target!

Scent drums. (Cocoa, incense, amber.)

Hoping for duds, but the olfactory notes are (with almost demonic ease) the purest dumdums! Full cover!? Alone one surprises his patch more than once at the spout of the 'thunderstorm canister'. Lifeless, too often been mere snooping soldier. No medal of valour, no officer's rank.

Scent drums. (Cocoa, incense, amber.)

Yes, stay away from us with the pineapples! Strike all nasal senses to break the monotony of being a scent funnel! Away with the scent-blasting helmets, complete with neiport armor!

Scent drums. (Cocoa, amber, incense, tonka bean.)

The collision with a second camouflaged nose, preferably a female one, must now be so scent-drumming short and pitiless. In lofty anticipation of the fuse laid nose kiss ...

Scent drums. (Cocoa, amber, incense, tonka bean.)

Another murderous scent trail comes flying after US. Is it for her? Is it for me? Is it for you and me? Commands like "GET OUT!" are unknown to us. Maintain the olfactory link! The descending branch of the olfactory pathway ends just above No Man's Nose Land.

Scent drums. (Cocoa, amber, incense, tonka bean.)

An accelerant perfume in the midst of such peril is dynamite, heck, medicine! By so expertly jumbling their curves and progressions, the fragrance notes create a balance that makes the event seem worthwhile. An olfactory game, which is certainly not under a million torn off uniform buttons to have!?

Scent drums. (Cocoa, amber, incense, tonka bean, vanilla.)

As she, Recruit XY, races through the combat zone with claw-like hands outstretched, spraying a shower of scent like machine-gun salvos onto the ground, "Huiiiii!", one barely manages to wrestle the joy-giver from her. Good girl (... yes, on the other hand, too), ifschon she still wants to resist even at this moment.

The scent drums. (Cocoa, amber, incense, tonka bean, vanilla.)

Feeling that in 'peacetime' it can merely disturb (nothing new in the West, basically), the scent creeps nimbly away: gradually drumming out after so many hours.

Army report: the fever strength of our 100-ml bullet is equal to the live marshmallow of two, four, seven, twenty-one infantry divisions! "Your Generalities: report obediently, A DRUM FIRE OF A DUKE!!!" Brewed and forged to set men in motion toward each other, and from fire(-spray) blast to fire(-spray) blast, to hurl a fresh pair of hearts into the Dantean surf. Or more prosaically: as if relentlessly seized by a nostril-sneaking mysterious will and driven with sniper precision and all the possibilities of being hit to the focal points of human togetherness. Grated in the sporty final battle of adulated (and ambered and cocoaed and ...) bodies!

Oh how hard it is for scents to have to live according to point values (only the ladybugs seem to have a similar [in]skill painted on the Gregor-samsaesque body). Irrmeinungen, Wirrmeinungen, Kirrmeinungen ...

Whichever shrewd druid may have mixed the fragrance together, he knew the moon under which one should take some essences from the fairy forest most mildly. For the mix is so exceedingly clean, not a pinch of rot, not a fathom of broken wood, nothing noxious, no fermentation of anything, hardly any manure, little industrial fertilizer.

Plucked clean of dragons, demons and Tolkienian darkness: this is a great place to play golf - such a beautiful English lawn, trimmed to matchstick shorteness! Or stand on your head and walk a few steps on your hands. The inclined reader notices: a perfume also for elves or who want to become one.

Possibly I do not smell the forest before trees, but firmly stood and storm and winds braved, that must have been truly quite elsewhere! What someone's coarser Waidmannslust probably expectedly dims down.

'Bvlgari Man Wood Essence' has nowhere near the needle-piercing penetrance of 'Pino', not the 'Go!'-Power of Joop, not the herbal brew of a Ted Lapidus ... Rather, the fragrance is a lizard, because you only cover short sections and in the middle of the run and run with jerky sideways stretched head and in meandering movement ("Do I still smell something? Do I still smell something??"), then more rigid, frozen, is slowed down. At every fork in the road must be hastily re-sprayed!

Fortunately (?) I call the gift set with cosmetic bag, after shave balm and the generous 100ml tank my own, by the way, in a chic, coronal wanderlust-inducing travel case design. St. Remo, we come then maybe 2025!? Green in the luggage. Both the color of hope and the frost nature.

Everyone knows the above song; the venerable, not to say dusty Rolling Stone magazine lists it as number 57 among 500 GOATs (the 56 before that are pretty much nonsense). Few may know that the harmonic sequence (complete with bass line) is that of Johann Sebastian Bach's World Heritage-suspect Suite No. 3 in D Major. With fugue (i.e. in tickling out various fugues) one can boast: the rough-cascade-like VerHAMMONDORGELung sprang from 'bächern'. In contrast to this, the mysterious song lyrics actually emanated from a second mastermind and, after 5 'puzzling', brain-tearing decades, may gradually enjoy a decryption. In short: A (sea-)man haunted by a ghostly female figure, such a one as she as a burdensome curse turns proud ocean cruisers into soul sellers. Or is that the excuse to get her around!? Anyway, the bass player always gets the chicks anyway.

Didn't every one of us bass vocalists, er ... men (!) once in his becoming phase or sometime (okay, let's subtract 17% because of me) a tall, extremely skinny, preferably blond - but not necessarily blond -, pale, no, pale girl desired, loved it!? DÉCLARATION by Cartier is eerily similar! The bas-relief flacon, which one stares at like an exhibition object, which it is almost forbidden to touch. At the neck alone the refined closure of guillotinesque cut ...! Nothing so far that has ever touched me in such uniqueness, or I, the clasp to be unlocked, clip-clap, shackle off. Needless to say, the bottle in question has the exact proportions of that snow-bright and discreet, almost boyish, female torso. As 1:1 of the encounter with the misty images of faded youth ent...hockt - 'entockt': the only angängige term for this.

And also the fragrance, the epochal, in the best sense of the word baroque, is any reminder of this! 101 perfumes and thousands and thousands of spray sniffs behind, I think I know that vetiver has never been more finely spun into an overall masculine composition (even the otherwise all-wealthy first sudsmith on the block, Guerlain, can't do it). We could still rub the backs of our swollen olfactory organs to the nasal septum bend so many times on different fragrant wrists or truffle-sniffing on the narrowest perfumery radius, it could bring 5, 6 hours or centuries, the dominant in the Veti cosmos remains that olfactory Gesamtkunstwerk, which is so much like the embodiment of an ideal.

If one could say it in words, instead of trying this in my case only rudimentary, there would probably be no reason to create such fragrances, which snatch dear people, happened, and events, all too human, from the dark oblivion bright ("Tug not so!"). Like a zipped bedsheet with knots in it.

Again, aren't the majority of us Y-chromosomes all haunted by an ethereal half-woman who does her haunting mischief in our upper chamber, snatching us away from industrious existence from time to time? Had she not at first been to us only a peculiar titillation? For our interest seemed seminaristic and quite semi in general. One would have to get rid of her after six full weeks and did not yet know how. Perhaps, or certainly not the most glorious expression among all Caravaggio's femininity (or was it Michelangelo, Rubens?) the erratic scales tilted in her favor notwithstanding. There would be revelry in matters of love until towards morning. That was after the racket and the sluggish entertainment, the dance round a jumble of hops such as no bandmaster or bouncer on duty would have tolerated. With raised finger conducting the pouring in for the last time, the eternally ceremonious drinking in, then under singing of the main chorus separating with the minion.

She is never quite cured, she is only always thirsty, she betrays herself nasally by her coughing. It is noticeably spoken from the hearts of the bleached co-conspirators. The declarationist sentiment grows stronger, not weaker! A touch too footsy (to pant inconspicuously through the ingredients now), too genuflecting. You lay yourself a solitaire, the marked cards murmur: Nevermore today! You can cede or dither, "Would you have another (karda) mom?" she does instantly. Gently cradled by mountain-amoor swells, you wave upraised arms (and hands like platters reaching for juiced orange halves) slightly drunk through the oak-moss-swollen, snowy room air. It's half peak conquest, half local anesthesia. When you ask "What for?" the birchwood blazes to an end - and her face TAKES ON A LIGHTER BLUE (opal white?). Paler by just that shade, she literally dissolves before you. Yet eternized, timelessly immortalized like Johann Sebastian's Requiem, like Cartier's Déclaration ... like any most complete expression of an existence.

Yes, such an inescapable scent attractant, with scent pyramid unchangeable even by modern synthesizing, is a piece of done life! Moreover, a good piece of staying! Scent-cartridge-armed one will put still nowadays many a wheel-beating 'bugbear' before the same solemn declaration.

In the local hit parade (without initial S), Déclaration is estimated to rank between 570th and 730th (at least 666 better-placed fragrances seem to me to be quite a nonsense), and you don't need to learn how to smell it. It works by itself! According to my intemperate nose, there are no serious doubles, i.e. dupes of these, on the market. At most in-house flankers (Eau de Toilette and Parfum really don't take each other much). BUY!, recommend the Börsianer.

Besides (googled) titles A Whiter Shade Of Pale furthermore a well-smelling, robust noble rose. It is suitable for single position and group planting ...


Finally the first Rezi is enveloped (enveloped?) and licked, one should have condensed the Erschriebene freely to 3 words: an everlasting fragrance. Done. And niemand's imagination plays with it!? For if embellishing poetry is the nourishment, the abrégé is the undersaturation.