mood: effulgent
we stumbled into a hillside iris garden just outside the city, an almost deserted but entirely well-planned construction of early blossoms. nothing here is not an iris; they are lined up careful as the rainbow fingerprints of a glove-shop window. scents vary with their hues: marigold-coloured blooms smell of beeswax, the untame memory of orchids for violet, citron lingering about the snow-drops. the nearby tuscan fields are russet with olives, vermilion poppies and also, wild purple iris. i don't know what else to write. there has never been a place so beautiful.
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