Wearing slumberhouse Kiste is like stepping into someone else’s dream space.

I was horrified when I first sniffed at the bottle, recoiling from the dense sticky booziness and medicinal herbal spike. But, on skin, it unfurls. It breathes. Slowly, because the air is a little thicker under the warmth of this alien sun. The gravity is a little higher, and the water is as viscous and golden as honey. The shadows are too long, and the moon is in the wrong place.

Everything is in slow motion. Why rush?

All the fairytale warnings of not eating and drinking are buzzing like pollen-drunk bees and far away conversations, but I would not mind being trapped in the amber of this eternal late afternoon, dozing in heather and hay. So why not eat the rum-drenched peaches and lick the syrup from your fingers?

These are not my memories. These are not my stories. Maybe they are. Kiste is where all the edges dissolve.

Originally posted 15 August 2019. I ended up selling this bottle, because I realised just how rarely I wore it. I’m glad I got to experience it, but it deserved more love.