Certain smells paralyse you in your tracks; the smell of Œillères is one. Neither floral nor animal, it misleads us, reflecting back to us the ephemera of our lives and feelings.
Neither the medicinal smell of camphor, nor sweet camomile soothe our flurried senses. Only this odour of corruption envelops our senses; sacred incense is powerless to raise or purify our souls.
The treacherous smell of broom, which stays the relentlessly tempting of Œillères, flatters our instincts. At the mercy of our whims, it sketches the outline of our desires and wishes; we give ourselves up to them and fall, corrupted by illusory beauty.
And this vertiginous fall is endless. Stroking a coveted skin evokes the sensual smell of cumin: we believe we can halt the descent. But it is inexorable, and the weary body, impregnated with the animality of excess, reminds us of this.
Œillères corrupt sublime beauty. And give us up to the vanity of our condition: broken puppets.