Lost Generation

On an empty street in a city, a lone tree stands, bare and forlorn. You tenderly stroke the trunk with your hand and then hug it tightly, listening as it whispers of long-passed time. A fog lifts and you look down at your hands, which are covered in the cool, damp feel of moss. Lost Generation is a tone poem in scent, resinous hinoki lightened with grapefruit, deepened with leather.