The height of August.
Clean white sheets in a cold, summer room.
Shut the world out tight.
When you awake, revel in the cool, private cathedral of your sheets.
The blinds, drawn for now despite the sins of midday, will keep out the heat and sun.
The room is almost dark.
Let’s sleep just a little bit more.
Over there, in the shadows, is the bathroom.
And that hard, violet-blue soap against the white.
But not just yet…
A strange, luminescent perfume, Santa Maria Novella’s Iris is not a perfume that speaks of those bei fiori in the usual, powdered, orris form, more a peculiarly old-fashioned acqua di colonia – spruce, hale and poetic; detached; with a timelessness and time-stripping aldehydic blue that seems to last forever: