perfume-area:

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Le Labo, “Lys 41”

Riding down milk road on a motorcycle, you feel free. Life-size tourists with their pet children hang out near the shy fountains. Ten anonymous hymns for guitar begins, and the miracle light reflects off the land juice, blinding you slightly (but in a good way). Year after year drips down your face, and every time you check the time, it’s spring.