Crushed Fruits from Regime des Fleurs shimmers and unfurls like an overripe reverie, fruit flesh and flowers awakening from brandy-soaked slumber; an ultraviolet tumble of plums, an infrared rush of raspberries, a kaleidoscopic cascade woven through the fold of a forgotten black velvet painting, glossy and dripping and beckoning with the urgency of a thousand hummingbird hearts. That 1970s canvas time-shifts into a 1990s dress, empire-waisted, bell-sleeved, phantom filigree choker at the throat, echoes of stompy boots, an ambery oxblood slash of Spice or Black Honey staining ghost-lips. A current of boozy bitterness and dusky incense, a smoky scent of hazy late neon nights bleeding into dawn, of kisses that taste like vintage lipstick from a dream you haven't had yet but always remember the moment before waking.