This magic potion, this instrument of transformation, could only be made by the crushing of armfuls of roses. Roses with thorny stems that yield lavish blossoms, lush petals, outrageous, puffed-up fantasies, trembling with the sweat of impatience and desire. Roses, red with blood, a piercing note leaving the flavor of fire on lips that suck the finger pricked by a thorn.
