Medusa00

...I stand at the open grave and cry into my flowered handkerchief. You've been laid out and no one's come to give you a proper eulogy. Your maker is long over Jordan and spinning in his own grave or he's hovering over us. He sits on cloud 1955 in a white robe, plucking at his harve and humming the Chypre song.
When you were born he gave you some fruit. Fresh, almost unripe plums that you have to push open. There are no maggots in them. A velvety peach that scratches your lips and a big lemon. Which top and heart notes dominate.

It becomes floral for a short time. But cloves come flying out of the clouds. Cinnamon rolls stuck between the strings and never become dominant (smells times at fresh cinnamon, nix with sweetness and nix with Christmas).
The wonderful floral note, which always floats along behind cloud 1955, prevents Quadrille from becoming too creaky.

In a mild mood, the nameless nose has sought a bit of dull creamy amber on the beach. The whales didn't volunteer it then. Later one has picked up only what they cked out near the beach.... have. But it gave fragrances soooo much depth and with dark, seductive musk was also not spared.

But I bet that from the sky still cedar branches, lightly scorched, waving.

We can't close the coffin until nothing flows out of here, but it flows and smells. Quadrille didn't want to die!

From Cloud 1955 comes an Amen and a final word: Be glad they didn't reformulate, neuter and reinterpret him...
Rest in peace!