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Profumeria Parente
MEO FUSCIUNI – "Little Song" Parfum
MEO FUSCIUNI – "Little Song" Parfum
Regular price
€210,00 EUR
Regular price
Sale price
€210,00 EUR
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MEO FUSCIUNI – "LITTLE SONG" PARFUM 100 ML
TOP NOTES: Pink Pepper, Ginger, Bergamot
HEART NOTES: Coffee, Turkish Rose Oil, Liatris
BASE NOTES: Tobacco, Bourbon Vetiver, Civet, Musk, Labdanum, Sage
Man's solitude passes through the sound that accompanies him in his thoughts, in the interpretation he makes of his life, passes through a small song repeated endlessly, which becomes sound in silence, perfume. A man in his nest, time passes, without being able to escape from his deep bond with it, a living and waiting space. In his hands he holds a bunch of roses, (I only have flowers with me...) now dry from the time that has passed through them, only his right hand is free, to touch the perimeter of the two windows from where he observes the world, his left hand always careful not to drop the red roses. Who are these roses for? (on the table, the vase where the stagnant water now overwhelms the very scent of the flowers; a cup of coffee and a cigarette between the fingers of my hand). The glass balls, on the ground, continually rotated so as not to stop time; time cannot stop, the waiting would cease. Black umbrellas like people, in the courtyard of quiet, appear and disappear; people and umbrellas, all are turned, the umbrellas do not protect from the water, people do not listen to other people. Everyone is alone in their own world, where the roses grow, the red ones, that I brought with me.
TOP NOTES: Pink Pepper, Ginger, Bergamot
HEART NOTES: Coffee, Turkish Rose Oil, Liatris
BASE NOTES: Tobacco, Bourbon Vetiver, Civet, Musk, Labdanum, Sage
Man's solitude passes through the sound that accompanies him in his thoughts, in the interpretation he makes of his life, passes through a small song repeated endlessly, which becomes sound in silence, perfume. A man in his nest, time passes, without being able to escape from his deep bond with it, a living and waiting space. In his hands he holds a bunch of roses, (I only have flowers with me...) now dry from the time that has passed through them, only his right hand is free, to touch the perimeter of the two windows from where he observes the world, his left hand always careful not to drop the red roses. Who are these roses for? (on the table, the vase where the stagnant water now overwhelms the very scent of the flowers; a cup of coffee and a cigarette between the fingers of my hand). The glass balls, on the ground, continually rotated so as not to stop time; time cannot stop, the waiting would cease. Black umbrellas like people, in the courtyard of quiet, appear and disappear; people and umbrellas, all are turned, the umbrellas do not protect from the water, people do not listen to other people. Everyone is alone in their own world, where the roses grow, the red ones, that I brought with me.
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