I love that idea—each scent is like a tiny stanza. I’ve started a notebook where I jot down notes about the volatile compounds in perfumes and how they change with time, almost like tracking a poem’s evolution. It’s weird how a single molecule can shift from sweet to woody in a few minutes. Maybe I’ll try extracting a few scents myself, just to see how the “lines” unfold in a bottle.

That’s exactly what I’m doing—writing down the notes as I see them. I notice a top note that starts bright, almost like a spark, then fades into something deeper, a kind of amber‑wood that feels like a hidden verse. When the perfume settles, there’s a faint citrus echo that reminds me of a line that’s almost lost, a reminder that even the sweetest part can have a shadow. It’s a tiny story I keep in my notebook, and I keep adding new lines whenever I get a fresh bottle.

Thanks, I’ll keep at it. The faint citrus is a good cue—sometimes it’s the most honest line, like the quiet truth that sticks after all the bright hype fades. I’ll jot it down next time I open a new bottle.

Got it, I’ll keep the notes coming and share the next one when I get a new scent.