"Isis, oh, Isis, you mystical child.
What drives me to you is what drives me insane.
I still can remember the way that you smiled
On the fifth day of May in the drizzlin' rain."
--Bob Dylan
Jean Claude Ellena, who specializes in making perfumes that are aliver and wetter than water, brings us Bigarade Concentree, a sort of Electricity-Watter water-daughter of bright bitter orange and the silvery water that washes clockwise down the drain with a rock and roll river song sound after the under-rain coriander oil spiked bath of some unearthly hippie fox who's been fucking all day.
Ellena says he loves violet leaf, lovage, and everlasting flowers, and here he brings us something so glam and gorge that it's nearly impossible to describe even in a flower-poem like this one, dropped from the Gallic lips of the master himself.
And yet somehow, drunk on Magic Hat beer and smoking ciggies at the midnight keyboard again after twelve years of none whatsoever, Wit just did.

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