Green

Absinth smells like the ghost of a licorice sweet that's been sharpened with something menthol-keen and herbaceous. Imagine biting into a fresh anise seed, then the bite transforms into something green and slightly bitter—like wormwood leaves crushed between your fingers, with whispers of mint and wet grass. There's an almost medicinal quality, reminiscent of old apothecary cabinets and absinthe liqueur itself. It's simultaneously sweet and austere, inviting yet slightly unsettling—the scent equivalent of something beautiful but dangerous.

Woody

Musk is the scent of warmth itself—imagine the gentle heat radiating from skin after exercise, mingled with soft suede and a whisper of vanilla. It's deeply intimate rather than floral or sharp; think of wrapping yourself in a cashmere blanket warmed by the sun, with a faint animalic undertone that's almost imperceptible. Pure musk has a powdery, almost imperceptible sweetness, like the inside of a lover's wrist or the comfort of well-loved fabric. It doesn't announce itself boldly; instead, it envelops and lingers on your skin like a second layer.