Each candle isn't named after a theory — it's an argument about the theory, conducted in wax. The definitions are accurate. The jokes are load-bearing. For the person who reads the footnotes and lights the candle anyway.

Garage, dive bar, and dispensary in candle form. Dad's smoke-and-gasoline coat, a lit joint, a lounge full of cigars. The candles you don't put out for company — or maybe you do, and they say a lot about you. No judgment. Some judgment.

The specific, unrepeatable smells of a life already lived — the VHS-and-popcorn Friday, the acid-wash jeans, the first car with the hot vinyl seats. Time travel you can light on fire. Comes with feelings you didn't ask for

For when someone in your life is boringly well-adjusted and wants a candle that simply smells good. Root beer floats, raspberry lemonade, gummy bears — genuinely pleasant, no notes. We're a little disappointed in you, but your money spends the same.

The dark shelf. Funeral homes, hospitals, wet ashtray, and one candle that is simply Basement. Hyper-real, faintly disturbing, and not for everyone — which is the entire point. Handle with the appropriate lack of care.

​The whole fairground in wax: kettle corn and cotton candy up top, livestock and field parking underneath, and the 10 p.m. fried-everything haze tying it together. Nostalgic, greasy, wonderful. Smells like a great night you'll feel in the morning.