The intense personality of davana illuminated by patchouli and citrus notes.

"Give them pleasure. The same pleasure they have when they wake up from a nightmare." –Alfred Hitchcock

She knew she was being watched. She could feel them through her closed eyes. The train made a rhythmic metallic clatter beneath her feet and she focused on the repetitive sounds to keep her eyes shut tightly against the danger she could sense. She'd fallen asleep, her head pressed up against the cool window as the shadows from outside passed softly over. She could feel her hair, static, sticking to her face like thousands of constricting tentacles. She had the agonizing compulsion to blow them off her face, but she dared not move for fear discovering what lay beyond. The sensation was intolerable. She felt the fear and excruciating claustrophobia of being locked in darkness. Every hair, every strand, tickled her skin. At her own risk, her eyes shot open and frantically darted around for the threat, but she was alone, with only an empty train compartment in front of her. The afternoon sun streamed through the window. Relief washed over her like an ocean.