Stream-of-consciousness tobacco review: Peter Stokkebye's Luxury Bullseye Flake

Here and here are thoughts:
memories I did not live,
and dreams forgotten.

I am on a journey of discovery. A discovery of the senses, where taste and smell intertwine and tease each other with flirting hints of rare spices and guilty, candy-like pleasures. To put this sense into words is like trying to pick up honey with my bare hands. An impossible task, it flows away in thick skeins, some of it sticks, but is it enough?

Blue smoke rolls on the palate like cinnamon dust. But there is more: nutmeg perhaps, fresh hay, sandalwood, hickory leaves baking in the hot summer sun. A spice never meant to be eaten, but only experienced. Breathe it. See how it fills the night? Somewhere a small forgotten god has smelled this pleasing aroma and smiled briefly in his sleep.

Breathe it. Let the tendrils drift around you. Let them touch your nostrils. Does it remind you of food? Of drink? Of a woman? Or does it remind you of that which you have never known, never known but suspected, suspected only in forgotten dreams of alien lands where strange small people harvest hidden fruits beneath a waning moon.

I need not know the answers. Only know that this is a tiny moment of now suspended in the swift transition of the ages. Like all things, it will soon pass.

This small, finite censer I hold in my teeth, it burns only briefly. Soon it will extinguish itself. Someday there will be another. But will it ever be like this again? Should it ever be like this again?

Only dream your forgotten dreams, and remember these things that were or may have been, and let the smoke lie on the back of your tongue for an instant before it dissipates. At this moment, nothing else matters.

crossposted at The Briar Files

P.S. Now you see why I rarely write tobacco reviews.