Armand

Who am I, Louis? Am I my history I have endured? Am I the job I do not want? I do not know anymore. No one has painted me in over 400 years. An ancient grief hidden beneath exquisite restraint. Beauty preserved in ice and amber, this scent opens luminous, weightless and angelic, composed and immaculate, but as it blooms, it is a calculated cacophony of contradictions: sacred and artificial, tender and monstrous, youthful and impossibly old. White musk, iris, and frankincense fougere unfolding like a prayer, but beneath it lies something feral and desperately starving for love, but utterly incapable of loving without consuming: resinous woods, blackened clove, and blood-tinged incense. Notes: White musk, iris, frankincense, resinous woods, blackened clove, blood-tinged incense