In Paris, there are advertisements for high-end perfumes displayed on scrolling, backlit billboards.
If you stand close enough, you can hear their mechanics creak. The plastered models sport short haircuts and tattoos. Font thin and bold.
Next to the billboards rest cigarette butts and fragments of trash. I gape as traffic whooshes angrily, remembering a cold apple and bad joke.
The perfume apparently smells of lilac, desire, and secret ingredients obtained from a natural source.