Hofnärrin

Green scents like to fall into the trap, and Victrix does not.

-He is not a tender little plant, which hardly pulled from the bottle miserably shrinks, but seems to unfold on my skin so properly

-It also does not start too modern and after half an hour does not turn into a watery syrup that smells like vanilla or caramel, but remains true to its color

-He does not reflect to me an artificial lawn, which one may not even enter then to all mischief, let alone lie down in it

-Victirx is not a photoshopped garden in which the eternally same weather flickers

-nor is it put-upon masculine or razor-sharp like some from the barber shop

-it doesn't get lost in a dark fir forest, (nothing against resinous forest scents, but then Victirx is rather not a forest scent, or maybe it is?

-Well - somehow Victrix manages to sell me an ivy-colored green that I'm sure exists somewhere - just not here, alas.

Anyway, long live the illusion, and for victoriously circumnavigating so many blunders, I think Victrix has rightfully earned his name.

Tangy acidic attack. The acidity is not citrusy and bright, but full-bodied, dark purple and herbaceous, dancing on the skin. Underneath, a promise tickles the nose as the upbeat - well - unapologetically clocks along. And so I wander and wander; it's end-of-summer, the sky is clear and the path is flanked by dark green-purple herb, leading dead straight into the horizon. And, though this path is as level as it is maintained, and I don't even need sturdy shoes to walk it, I catch myself tiring far too quickly and looking for a landmark, a crooked oak tree, a dilapidated sheep pen, or if need be a mosquito-swarmed pool; but there is nothing.
And so I wander and wander; the way is the goal.

P.S: "wanderlust", by the way, like "abseiling or "schadenfreude", is an English word meaning "wanderlust" and "wanderlust" and pronounced "wonder-last" ;-)

Depressed white bloomer. Heavyweight soap. Clean but not fresh. Doesn't seem synthetic despite a slight Tippex note. Barren of any turgidity. Also not tingly, spicy-sugary or floaty. Rests on the skin. Rests and rests and rests. After about five long hours, the scent finally moves. And it moves towards the wintry lakeshore and dried reeds. If you ask me, an expensive pleasure.

Hello.
I'd like seventy-five milliliters of the twelve-hour layton. But please only the first five minutes of the surprising top note and the last four hours of the dreamlike sensual drydown. You may keep the rest.
And by the way, the fragrance is meant to be a gift. Could you leave the price on, please?

When the heap of straw lit up like a fairy tale in the first sunlight, the king suddenly didn't care that the miller's daughter had not succeeded in spinning gold from it. He married her anyway, and since her marriage lasted surprisingly much longer than was criticized from different sides here, Rumpelstizchen left without having achieved anything.