Kilian’s first steps were naturally incandescent. Emerging quietly, but with a velvet passion, drawing from their mysterious darkness a merciless burst of perfumes in a definitive blast. A sort of final song as if everything were to end there. Make a noise, think like a perfumer in the nineteenth century, sweep aside, bypass, slice through the ambient culture (RnB, Snoop Dogg), make the “black album” (Prince) with biting iris (Florence and its suppressed cruelty), Calabrian bergamot, Tunisian neroli. And then, afterwards: a deep, pregnant silence.