Citrus

Blueberry is deceptively subtle—nothing like biting into the fruit itself. Imagine the wispy sweetness of berry jam at the moment it's being made, before it darkens and concentrates. There's a faint powdery quality, almost like dusting your fingers with icing sugar mixed with crushed violet leaves. The scent whispers rather than shouts: slightly tart, gently fruity, with an underlying earthy undertone reminiscent of wet soil after rain. It's more perfume-sketch than photorealistic berry—ethereal and impressionistic.

Woody

Woody notes smell like the heart of a forest distilled into liquid form. Imagine walking through an ancient woodland after rain—that deep, earthy richness underfoot, mixed with the slightly resinous warmth of tree bark and aged timber. There's a dryness to it, reminiscent of pencil shavings or cedar chests, yet simultaneously warm and comforting, like sitting by a fireplace in a cabin. Not sharp or medicinal, but grounding and structural—the olfactory equivalent of solid wood supporting a building.