Comme des Garcons Incense Series Avignon is a dusty antique rosewood chest locked against prying eyes until the moment it wants to be open, full of bitter frankincense saturated veils and coniferous cedar shavings and brittle scrolls scrawled with secrets unspeakable and sublime. This is an ultimate comfort scent in any season and the fragrance I reach for whenever I need inspiration of an ineffable nature

This is probably my favourite scent in the world - it’s austere and meditative and calls to mind a dark prayer in a cool, shadowy forest temple.

Bianco Latte opens incredibly sweet, like a decadent caramel macchiato with extra vanilla syrup and plush, honey-infused cream. It's so sweet it almost makes me mad, which almost makes me weepy, because I'm one of those people who cries instead of yells when they get mad. And it makes me think of super cute animals, how sometimes when we see a little fluffy furry cutie-patootie, we just burst into tears. Even though they're adorable and charming, and they make us happy! And this, in turn, makes me think of that old 2006-era website, Cute Overload, and this one particular chubby, floofy bunny, whose fur was so white and its eyes were so big and innocent, and I just died every time I saw it. I think that's the essence Bianco Latte is trying to capture - that overwhelming, almost painful sweetness that stirs up complex emotions. As the scent settles on your skin, it softens, much like how you'd calm down after that initial rush of seeing an impossibly adorable creature. As Bianco Latte dries down, the white musk emerges, creating an airy softness that mimics the imagined touch of that bunny's impossibly fluffy fur. The vanilla becomes more rounded and marshmallow-squishy, reminiscent of how you'd want to cuddle that sweet little guy. The honey notes linger, reminding you of the golden glow of nostalgia for simpler internet days when a cute animal picture could be the highlight of your afternoon. It's a scent that doesn't just evoke memories, but feelings - that mix of joy, tenderness, and inexplicable sadness that comes from encountering something almost too precious for this world.

Warm Bulb opens with a subtle but singular blend of fuzzed salinity combined with the scent of a heating element, evoking the imagined aroma of a Himalayan salt lamp covered in a fine patina of dust. I have several of these lamps, and mine don't smell like much of anything in particular, but this opening is always how I thought they would smell. It's the essence of warm, mineralized air, like you could smell the soft, pinky-orange glow emanating from rough-hewn salt crystals beneath a thin veil of settled particles. The fragrance makes me think of the lamp's alleged ability to ionize the air, creating an olfactory impression of a purified, slightly electric atmosphere tinged with a hint of neglect. As it develops, the scent undergoes an unexpected transition, as if a forgotten offering has been left near the lamp's warm glow: a small dried bouquet and a marshmallow, both altered by proximity to the salt lamp's warmth and accumulated residue. Imagine pressed flowers; their colors faded but still discernible, mingled with the powdery sweetness of a marshmallow slowly desiccating in the lamp's ambient heat, all covered by a ghostly layer of time's passage. Though not a scent that wildly excited me, Warm Bulb's quiet journey from dusty, electrified minerals to withered floral sweetness proved to be an interesting olfactory experience, even just to think about and write about, if not to wear.

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.