After having been emotionally clobbered by vintage Shalimar parfum (in which I experienced flashes of light and voices from above, like the conversion of Saul of Tarsus en route to Damascus), I never thought I could write about oriental fragrances again. And I can't.
I'll just say that if Shalimar is eyes and smoulder, Emeraude is the smile after, and the hand-hold.
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