Little Song
Cycle of Metamorphosis
The passage of time
Little song tells the metamorphosis of time, which inexorably passes through our lives. A perfume that tells of my loneliness and my intimate sensation of time, which flows and changes things. Little song speaks to the past. How to tell the time that passes? How to find the scent of metamorphosis? In the initial vibration of its citrus and spicy notes, I listen to hope.
A coffee and a rose
Little song is a small song repeated endlessly, it is a cup of coffee, left alone on the table in my studio, the scent of its bottom, intense, aromatic, from there, I started to remember. Little song is a bouquet of roses held in my hand. I looked for depth in the Rose, I looked for the poetry of its petals, slowly drying, deep and dusty feeling.
A song
Little song is a daily ritual, the cigarette now consumed between the fingers, the pungent tobacco brings the look away, Kafka pages repeated by heart. A scent of earth and smoke, of roots and resins. Finally, even time has its own perfume. I keep writing this little song over and over again, like a lullaby. Little song is a narrow space, it is a deep connection with life, with the past. A perfume that shakes the heart, that reaches the bottom of the human soul.
Little Song
A song that becomes sound in silence and perfume.
Musical inspiration: Murder ballads and Skeleton tree by Nick Cave and the bad seeds
Composition
- Coffee
- Rose
- Tobacco
Olfactory family: Woody
Facets: Cypriate, Gourmande
Bottle of perfume
€ 210,00
€ 9,00
And we are a little song,
where the word has already fallen
And we are a little song,
Made of memories and nursery rhymes.
Do you remember when the snow fell inside glass balls and time was alive?
For all the mornings when we entered our world, made of strides and chasms.
And we are a little song, where it is no longer enough to smile to carry on crying.
Do you remember when open umbrellas flew into the trees
And gazes were lost on the banks of that river?
Black and white images of our existence.
And we are a little song, snow no longer falls in glass balls, no one shakes up a snowstorm anymore,
everything has fallen into the void of distant condolences
And we are a little song, far from my time and yours…
Little song is a small poem repeated endlessly, is a deep bond.
Little song describes the smell of things and their mutation,
is a mental state of man, is an object, it is a daily ritual.
Little song becomes a sound in the silence, a scent, is an olfactory memory of life.
Little song begins with my metamorphosis, it’s the courtyard of stillness, it’s a sensation.
Little song is dark umbrella like people, it’s the depths of human mood, it’s its change,
it’s the restricted space, it’s the passage, it’s the rose that I brought with me, it’s a place.
Little song describes my loneliness.
And we are a little song,
where the word has already fallen
And we are a little song,
Made of memories and nursery rhymes.
Do you remember when the snow fell inside glass balls and time was alive?
For all the mornings when we entered our world, made of strides and chasms.
And we are a little song, where it is no longer enough to smile to carry on crying.
Do you remember when open umbrellas flew into the trees
And gazes were lost on the banks of that river?
Black and white images of our existence.
And we are a little song, snow no longer falls in glass balls, no one shakes up a snowstorm anymore,
everything has fallen into the void of distant condolences
And we are a little song, far from my time and yours…
Little song is a small poem repeated endlessly, is a deep bond.
Little song describes the smell of things and their mutation,
is a mental state of man, is an object, it is a daily ritual.
Little song becomes a sound in the silence, a scent, is an olfactory memory of life.
Little song begins with my metamorphosis, it’s the courtyard of stillness, it’s a sensation.
Little song is dark umbrella like people, it’s the depths of human mood, it’s its change,
it’s the restricted space, it’s the passage, it’s the rose that I brought with me, it’s a place.
Little song describes my loneliness.
