Unquiet
Things

Pieces Of My Heart from Filigree & Shadow is a fragrance that asks, “Speak, what brings you to me?” And in its presence, we cannot help but be laid bare. This scent brooks no pretense; it deftly dismantles our carefully constructed facades, leaving us vulnerably authentic and, paradoxically, empowered. A sacred space where honesty becomes ordained and inevitable. It opens with a whisper of sweetness – not quite citrus, but rather the essence of some rare citrine blossom, distilled and crystallized. Flecks of golden light seem to float within this initial accord, a luminous beginning, a beacon, guiding irresistibly, inexorably toward self-revelation. As it unfolds, a velvety incense emerges, not heavy or overwhelming, but as steadfast and reassuring as a hand held in the dark. There’s a smooth quality that defies easy categorization – a silken, buttery, almost unctuous texture that speaks of softness and solace. This textural element persists, both olfactory and emotional, as if the scent itself could heal. The gentle resins and this satiny accord intertwine in an aroma at once ethereal and grounding, conjuring a feeling of ineffable comfort, the essence of a prayer exhaled into cupped palms, gently smoothed over troubled skin and spirit. It evokes a sense of resolute serenity – the essence of that still, small voice affirming, “I am not afraid. I was born for this.” Wearing this fragrance feels like standing at the threshold of revelation, where all the raw, messy horrors of being human finally crystallize into a single, breathtaking moment of grace, a benediction of tender acceptance of our whole flawed, stupid selves. Pieces Of My Heart is an olfactory sacrament that whispers a terrifying truth: we, in all our awful humanness, our flaws and frailties, our fears and faltering steps, are okay. We are enough. This revelation is at once frightening and profoundly liberating. With each inhalation, we are confronted with our own worthiness – a concept so vast and beautiful it threatens to undo us.

Treading Water’s The Observer is a scent that lingers at the threshold of something undefined, evoking the curious sensation of having one foot out the door. Upon first encounter, a clean, green leaf note emerges crisp and bright, soon followed by a dry, woody sharpness. Weaving through these more familiar elements is an unexpected rubbery undertone, an oddly compelling accent that keeps drawing me back for another sniff. There’s an elusive quality to the scent that I struggle to pinpoint – it hovers somewhere between “new car smell” and “unused room.” Not quite sterile, but rather a bit stale and unlived-in, like a well-maintained but uninhabited house. It’s as if a caretaker visits occasionally, but the absence of human presence is palpable in the air. This strange emptiness persists as the fragrance develops on my skin, leaving me to ponder what lies beyond that metaphorical door, and whether I’m prepared to step through it.

Amouage Lilac Love When one thinks of lilac fragrances, the words “delicate” and “demure” often come to mind. Amouage Lilac Love, however, is…not that. This scent is a fragrant homage to larger-than-life, flamboyant femininity and old-school glamour, conjuring the essence of bosomy madam Miss Mona swanning around in her feather boas and silk peignoirs in The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. I have heard this described as a floral gourmand, which seems accurate, but I can’t pinpoint exactly how. There’s an abstract richness and creaminess that evokes an elusive decadence, and the floral element feels somewhat speculative as well. Not a lush bouquet of actual fresh cut blooms, but the lavish ideal of them swirled into a velvet wallpaper design in a dim-lit boudoir. A plush, powdery musk settles on the skin, a rope of pearls pooled across a soft expanse of warmed skin. Luxurious and heady, and combined with the honeyed floral sweetness, it’s a scent that seems to revel in its own sumptuousness. Lilac Love is A LOT. And every bit of it is gorgeous.

L’Artisan Histoire d’Orangers is the very gothest orange blossom. If you could distill all the words in every language for “melancholia,” capture the essence of a flick of heavy black eyeliner, or bottle the resonance of a sorrowful minor chord, that would sum up this perfume. It’s the poetry of abandoned orange groves at twilight, their spectral blossoms an incense of Saudade, Sehnsucht, of Mono no aware. For those moments when you long to wrap yourself in a tremulous sublimity of sadness, to revel in the exquisite pain of being achingly alive in a world that’s always slipping away. I’m aware this is the biggest, corniest cliche you’ve ever heard, but as a Florida goth awash in perpetual summertime glooms, I don’t know what else to tell you.

Aedes de Venustas Cierge de Lune is a vanilla bean moonbeam threading its way through a labyrinth of mirrors. Silken jasmine vines unravel from the moon’s negligee, weaving themselves into a veil that drapes across sleeping cities. A silvered net catching soft, pale fragments of dreams – a half-remembered kiss, the touch of cool desert air, the rustle of invisible wings. A drop of liquid light falls through layers of reality, a holy garland of tears and stardust-dappled night blooms. The slow stretch of time across a lunar landscape, captured in a sleepy smoked amber glass.

bloodmilk x Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab Bat Moth A chiaroscuro of earthy depth and hallucinatory sweetness, Bat Moth is the ecstatic fever dream intricacies of a Victorian fairy painter’s tiny fae revelers, filtered through Silky Bat’s sugar-spun patchouli charms. Or perhaps replace all the fairies in this frenzied vision with a wondrous delirium of bats: a warm-woody-fuzzy-fleecy chiropteran cloud of musk, beady black-jellied eyes, leathery-resinous flitterings in a dizzying expanse of sweetly dewy night air. For all the frenetic moonrise mania as the scent begins its evening’s flight, its midnight repose is a softly patchoulified haze, a velvet brown sugar nocturne, a drowsy incantation, a dissolving reverie.

blood milk x Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab Ultramarine, to my nose, is a wistful, romantic reverie of introspective painter Charles Burchfield’s mystical naturalism viewed through Beatrix Potter’s whimsical lens. A scent for gathering wild berries as twilight fog swirls underfoot, to be savored later with billowing clouds of softly sweetened, vanilla-scented cream. The faded cotton of ruffled floral aprons cradle dusky harvests, the tart sweetness tempered by evening’s cool breath. Mist-shrouded meadows drowse in the gloaming, where weathered fences stand sentinel to deepening indigo shadows. Nightbirds trill a tender lullaby as tendrils of aromatic steam curl through dampened air. Petals pearled with dew unfurl in the blue hour, their fragrance mingling with the earthy whisper of leaf litter and loam. A first-quarter moon’s reflection shivers in a porcelain cup, its slanted light filtering through lace-curtained windows to illuminate lilac petals steeping in its wake.

In honor of the availability of Arcana’s Holy Terror in an EDP form, I thought I’d go back to my original, very half-assed review of the scent and expand upon it in the way that one of my top-ten forever fragrances deserves. This is a scent that unfolds like a waking dream, a fragrant tale that blurs the boundary between consciousness and slumber, where honeyed richness of beeswax candles intertwines with resinous incense. As it settles on the skin, the frankincense and myrrh meld with the mellow warmth of the beeswax, their individual notes blurring like secrets inked on damp parchment. There’s a golden amber vein comfort woven through the austere resins, reminiscent of candlelight flickering against ancient stone walls. The longer you wear it, the more Holy Terror becomes a sensory lullaby. It’s the olfactory equivalent of that drowsy state just before sleep claims you, when the words on the page of your gothic novel begin to swim and the tendrils of incense seem to form shapes in the air. The sandalwood provides a steady backdrop, like the spine of an old book, while the honeyed incense notes dance and swirl, becoming indistinguishable from one another. As you drift deeper into this scented reverie, you find yourself wandering the shadowy corridors of a crumbling castle, where portraits seem to breathe and suits of armor creak with unseen movement, and the amber-tinged air is suffused with ancient prophecy and long-buried secrets. In your mind’s eye, you observe yourself fleeing through moonlit cloisters, your feet bare and stumbling, leaving trails in the dust of centuries, the shadows descending upon you, unfolding you like a cloak. In the end, this fragrance doesn’t so much evoke fearsome abbey spirits as it does the gentle ghosts of stories half-remembered, of dreams that linger upon waking. It’s what you might smell if you fell asleep reading by candlelight and woke to find the smoke from the snuffed flame mingling with the last wisps of incense, all suffused with the ambery glow of beeswax

Stora Skuggan Azalai conjured forth SUCH a very specific image for me. Does anyone else remember Peaches & Cream Barbie from the 1980s? I don’t know if she had a specific scent, but Azalai is the fantasy aroma of that resplendent frothy pale coral gown she wore. Saffron-infused honey, champagne-candied apricots, and a golden halo of spun sugar amber clouds filtered to a honeyed, hazy glow through countless layers of delicate fabric, gossamer veils of tulle, and organza. Sheer and luminous, light and dreamy, this is everything little-me dreamed was so special about that doll. Even if I did eventually chop her hair off and marry her off to a small, plastic Lando Calrissian, only for her to disappear under mysterious circumstances on a skiing trip in the French Alps during their honeymoon.

Dammit, dammit, dammit. I really did not want to like Bianco Latte. Everyone seems to adore it, and I am the kind of annoying person who doesn’t want to like something that everyone else likes. But sometimes…everyone else might be on to something? Stop it! I hate that! 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.

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