Daniel sent us this one — following up on our deep dives into frankincense and spikenard, he wants us to tackle myrrh. The third member of the ancient aromatic trinity. And here's the thing: everyone's heard of myrrh, it's right there in the Christmas story, but most people couldn't tell you what it actually is, where it comes from, or why it was worth as much as gold for thousands of years. So Daniel's asking us to unpack the whole thing — the botany, the ancient trade, the medicinal uses, and what happened to its value in the modern world.
I am genuinely thrilled about this one. Myrrh is fascinating precisely because it's so misunderstood. Most people think it's just "frankincense's sibling" and leave it at that, but the biology and the chemistry are completely different, and the story of how it moved through the ancient world is honestly wilder than anything Frank Herbert cooked up.
By the way, before we go further — today's script is coming to us courtesy of DeepSeek V four Pro. So if anything sounds unusually coherent, that's why.
I'll try not to be jealous of a language model.
You're doing that thing where you pretend to be humble while actually being competitive with software.
I contain multitudes. Let's start with what it actually is, because this is where most people's knowledge just evaporates. Myrrh is a resin, specifically an oleo-gum-resin, that exudes from trees in the genus Commiphora. There are about a hundred and ninety species of Commiphora, but the commercially important ones are primarily Commiphora myrrha and Commiphora molmol. These are scraggly, thorny trees that grow in arid regions — Somalia, Ethiopia, Yemen, parts of Oman. They look nothing like what you'd picture. They're not majestic. They're spiky little survivors.
Spiky little survivors that produced one of the most valuable substances in the ancient world. That contrast alone is worth sitting with. You've got these gnarly, thorn-covered shrubs in some of the harshest terrain on earth, and they're weeping gold.
"weeping" is literal. The resin seeps out of natural cracks in the bark, or from cuts made by harvesters. It oozes out as a pale yellow liquid and then hardens into reddish-brown tears. That's actually the technical term — tears. The harvesting process is almost identical to what we described with frankincense, but the trees are even more difficult to work with because Commiphora species tend to be shorter, twistier, and more heavily armed with thorns.
I appreciate that you're describing a tree like it's a belligerent neighbor.
Have you seen Commiphora? I did my reading for this. The thorns on some of these species are intimidating. There's a reason harvesting myrrh has always been specialized labor. You can't just walk up and start cutting. The tree fights back. And the yield per tree is small — maybe a few hundred grams per tree per season. When you think about the volumes that moved through ancient trade routes, you're talking about thousands of harvesters working across enormous territories.
Let's get into those trade routes. This is where the story gets properly epic. The Incense Road isn't as famous as the Silk Road, but it predates it and in some ways it was more commercially significant for the civilizations involved.
The Incense Road — sometimes called the Frankincense Trail — was a network of land and sea routes that connected the southern Arabian Peninsula, the Horn of Africa, and the Mediterranean world. We're talking about a trade network that was fully operational by fifteen hundred BC, and it moved staggering quantities of aromatics. The Egyptians were importing myrrh by the boatload — literally, there are records of expeditions to the Land of Punt, which most scholars place in the Horn of Africa, bringing back myrrh trees and resin. Queen Hatshepsut's temple at Deir el-Bahri has these detailed reliefs showing the expedition she sent to Punt around fourteen ninety BC, and you can see the myrrh trees being loaded onto ships.
Wait, they transported whole live trees?
Hatshepsut's expedition brought back thirty-one live myrrh trees, planted them in the temple complex at Thebes. This is one of the earliest recorded attempts at botanical transplantation for economic purposes. The trees didn't thrive long-term in the Egyptian climate, but the attempt tells you how valuable myrrh was. They weren't just buying the resin — they wanted the source.
That's an incredible detail. A pharaoh commissioning what amounts to an agricultural espionage mission three and a half thousand years ago.
It worked, in a sense. The Egyptians became the primary consumers of myrrh in the ancient world for centuries. They used it for everything — temple incense, embalming, medicine, perfume. The embalming connection is important because it's one of the reasons myrrh developed this association with death and funerary rites. Egyptian embalmers used myrrh as a key ingredient in the mummification process. It has antimicrobial properties — we'll get to the chemistry — that helped preserve bodies. When you read about myrrh in ancient texts, there's often this dual association: it's sacred and it's funereal. Life and death wrapped up in the same resin.
Which makes the Christmas story detail more interesting. You've got gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Gold for kingship, frankincense for divinity, and myrrh — the embalming resin — as this quiet foreshadowing of death. It's a gift that carries a funeral in its scent.
And the early Christians who told that story would have immediately understood the symbolism. Myrrh meant death. It wasn't ambiguous. That gift would have landed with the weight of a prophecy. But here's what's interesting — myrrh wasn't just a funeral resin in the ancient world. Its primary use was actually medicinal. The Egyptians, the Greeks, the Romans, the Chinese, the Ayurvedic tradition — they all used myrrh as medicine. Hippocrates wrote about it. Dioscorides devoted significant attention to it in De Materia Medica. Pliny the Elder described multiple grades and varieties of myrrh and their different medical applications.
What were they treating with it?
Everything from wounds to digestive issues to respiratory problems. Myrrh has genuine antimicrobial and anti-inflammatory properties. The resin contains compounds called sesquiterpenes and furanosesquiterpenes — these are the active constituents. Modern research has confirmed that myrrh extracts have activity against a range of bacteria and fungi, including some drug-resistant strains. There was a study published in the Journal of Ethnopharmacology that showed myrrh oil was effective against Staphylococcus aureus, including MRSA. The ancients weren't wrong about this stuff.
We're not talking about folk medicine in the dismissive sense. This is a case where the traditional use mapped onto genuine pharmacological activity.
And that's one of the things that makes myrrh fascinating from a scientific perspective. It's not a placebo. The compounds in myrrh actually do something measurable. The main active constituents — furanoeudesma one three diene, lindestrene, curzerene — these are real molecules with demonstrated biological effects. Myrrh also contains compounds that modulate inflammation pathways. There's research showing that myrrh extracts can inhibit certain inflammatory mediators, which explains why it was used for arthritis and joint pain in traditional systems.
This is where I want to push a little bit on the "ancients knew what they were doing" narrative. Because yes, they identified a effective substance, but they also used myrrh for things that were complete nonsense. Pliny listed myrrh as a cure for baldness, for example.
And for snake bites, and for what he called "affections of the uterus," which covered basically everything. The ancient medical texts are a mix of genuine observation and wild speculation. But what's striking is that across multiple independent traditions — Egyptian, Greek, Chinese, Indian — myrrh kept showing up as a wound treatment and an antimicrobial. That kind of cross-cultural convergence usually signals something real.
When cultures that had no contact with each other independently arrive at the same application, it's a decent heuristic for efficacy.
The mechanism makes sense when you think about it. Myrrh is basically the tree's immune response. When the bark is damaged, the tree exudes this resin to seal the wound and prevent infection. It's an antimicrobial defense system. Humans basically borrowed the tree's immune system and applied it to their own wounds. That's a pattern we see repeatedly in traditional medicine — plant defense compounds repurposed as human medicines.
The tree is fighting off pathogens and we're just stealing the chemistry. Very on-brand for humanity.
And the chemistry of myrrh is complex. It's not one compound doing one thing — it's a cocktail of terpenoids, sesquiterpenes, and various resin acids. The composition varies by species, by geography, by season, by harvesting method. This has been a headache for modern researchers trying to standardize myrrh extracts for pharmaceutical use. You can't just say "myrrh" and assume consistent chemistry. Somali myrrh and Yemeni myrrh are different. Commiphora myrrha and Commiphora molmol produce different resin profiles. Even the color of the tears — which ranges from pale yellow to deep reddish brown — corresponds to different chemical compositions.
Which must have mattered for the ancient trade as well. They wouldn't have had gas chromatography, but they'd have had sensory evaluation. Color, texture, aroma.
Pliny describes multiple grades of myrrh in the first century AD, and he's clearly drawing on a much older tradition of quality assessment. The most prized variety was called "stacte" — literally "the oozing" in Greek — which was myrrh so fresh and resinous that it hadn't fully hardened. It was worth multiples of the standard grade. There were also regional designations: Troglodytic myrrh, Minaean myrrh, each with different properties and price points. The ancient spice markets had sophisticated quality assessment systems that we've largely lost.
That's a fantastic name. Sounds like it was harvested by cave dwellers.
That's literally what it means. The Troglodytes were a people living along the Red Sea coast of Africa, in what's now Eritrea and Sudan. They were described by Greek and Roman writers as living in caves, hence the name. And they were key players in the myrrh trade. The geography here matters enormously. The best myrrh came from two regions: the Horn of Africa, particularly Somalia and Ethiopia, and the southern Arabian Peninsula, particularly Yemen and Oman. These are separated by the Bab el-Mandeb strait, which is only about twenty miles wide at its narrowest point.
You've got two sides of the same ecological zone, split by a narrow strait, both producing the same valuable commodity. That's a recipe for intense trade competition.
That's exactly what happened. The kingdom of Saba — biblical Sheba — controlled much of the Arabian side and grew enormously wealthy from the incense trade. Meanwhile, the kingdom of Punt on the African side was Egypt's primary source. The trade routes converged in the city of Petra, which became fabulously rich as the middleman. The Nabataeans, who built Petra, essentially controlled the land routes from Arabia to the Mediterranean. They taxed every camel caravan that passed through. Modern estimates suggest that at its peak, the incense trade moved thousands of tons of aromatics annually, with values that would translate to hundreds of millions of dollars in today's terms.
Thousands of tons. For a product harvested a few hundred grams at a time from thorny trees in the desert. The logistical achievement is staggering.
It required a level of organization that we don't typically associate with "ancient" economies. You needed harvesters, sorters, packagers, camel drivers, guards, merchants, tax collectors, ship captains. The Incense Road wasn't a single route — it was a supply chain spanning thousands of miles, crossing multiple kingdoms and empires, operating continuously for over a thousand years. The National Geographic piece I was reading described it as the world's first truly global commodity network, and I think that's fair. Before silk, before spices from India, before any of that, there was frankincense and myrrh.
What broke it? The Incense Road doesn't exist anymore in that form.
The rise of Christianity was a big one — the early church fathers were actively hostile to incense, which they associated with pagan worship. The Roman Empire's conversion to Christianity massively reduced demand for temple incense. Then the Islamic conquests reshuffled the political map. The Crusades disrupted eastern Mediterranean trade. And by the time the Portuguese rounded the Cape of Good Hope and established direct sea routes to India and the East, the old overland incense routes were economically obsolete.
A combination of religious shift, political disruption, and technological change in shipping. The usual suspects for killing an ancient industry.
Here's what's interesting — myrrh didn't disappear. It just changed markets. It remained important in traditional Chinese medicine, in Ayurveda, in Middle Eastern folk medicine. It's still harvested today, in substantial quantities. Somalia and Ethiopia remain the world's primary producers. The methods haven't changed much in three thousand years. You still have harvesters going out with small blades, making incisions in the bark, collecting the dried tears by hand.
What's the modern market look like? Is this still a significant commodity?
It's significant but niche. Global myrrh production is estimated at somewhere between one thousand and two thousand tons annually. Compare that to something like coffee, which is about ten million tons. But the value per kilogram can be quite high. High-quality myrrh resin sells for thirty to eighty dollars per kilogram wholesale. The essential oil is much more valuable — pure myrrh oil can go for hundreds of dollars per kilogram. The market is primarily for incense, traditional medicine, and natural cosmetics. There's been a resurgence of interest in natural antimicrobials, which has driven some new research and commercial interest.
It's not a dead industry, but it's a shadow of what it was. A boutique commodity rather than a pillar of the global economy.
And that brings us to one of the more troubling aspects of the myrrh story, which is sustainability. Commiphora species are not currently listed as endangered, but they're under pressure. Overharvesting is a real concern. The trees can be damaged by aggressive tapping. Climate change is shifting the already-marginal environments where these trees grow. And the political instability in the primary producing regions — Somalia, Yemen — makes sustainable management extremely difficult.
This is the same pattern we saw with spikenard. When a natural product has value and the harvesting communities are economically desperate, sustainability goes out the window.
Exactly the same dynamic. In Somalia, myrrh harvesting is one of the few reliable sources of cash income for rural communities. When prices are high, there's enormous pressure to overharvest. And the trees are slow-growing — a Commiphora tree takes years to recover from aggressive tapping, and overharvested trees become susceptible to disease and die off. There are areas in northern Somalia where myrrh production has declined significantly because the tree populations have been depleted.
Is anyone working on this? Sustainable harvesting standards, cultivation projects?
There are some efforts. Fair trade and organic certification programs have been introduced in parts of Somalia and Ethiopia. There's research into plantation cultivation of Commiphora, though it's challenging because the trees are adapted to very specific arid conditions and they don't transplant well. Hatshepsut's gardeners learned that three and a half thousand years ago. There's also work on improving harvesting techniques — shallower cuts, longer recovery periods between tappings. But enforcement is hard when you're dealing with remote regions and subsistence harvesters.
The Hatshepsut callback is perfect. Thirty-five hundred years later and we're still struggling with the same basic problem: this is a wild resource that resists domestication.
That resistance is part of what made it valuable in the first place. If you could grow myrrh trees anywhere, the scarcity premium disappears. The whole economic logic of the Incense Road was built on geographic monopoly. Only certain regions produced the best resin, and controlling access to those regions meant controlling the supply. The moment cultivation becomes easy, the mystique evaporates and the price collapses.
Which raises an interesting question: is the value of myrrh inherently tied to scarcity, or is there something irreplaceable about the wild-harvested resin from its native range?
There's a real chemical difference. Resin composition is influenced by environmental stress. Trees growing in harsh, arid conditions produce different secondary metabolite profiles than trees growing in comfortable conditions with plenty of water. The stress compounds — the ones that give myrrh its antimicrobial properties — are produced in higher concentrations when the tree is struggling. So a plantation-grown myrrh tree in a well-watered environment might produce resin that's chemically different and less potent. The scarcity and the quality are linked in a way that's not just about market perception.
That's a fascinating point. The very harshness that makes harvesting difficult is what makes the product valuable. Comfortable trees produce inferior resin. So the tree's suffering is literally what we're paying for.
There's a metaphor in there somewhere that I'm not sure I want to unpack.
Let's sit with it uncomfortably for a moment and then move on.
Let's talk about the chemistry in more detail, because this is where myrrh gets interesting from a modern science perspective. The resin is complex — it's not a single substance, it's a mixture of volatile oils, water-soluble gums, and alcohol-soluble resins. The volatile fraction is what gives myrrh its characteristic smell. It's warm, balsamic, slightly bitter, with notes that perfumers describe as "medicinal" and "leathery." The main volatile compounds are furanosesquiterpenes — these are relatively unusual in the plant kingdom. Frankincense, by contrast, is dominated by monoterpenes and diterpenes. Completely different chemical families.
Despite being lumped together as "aromatic resins," myrrh and frankincense are chemically unrelated.
They come from different plant families — Commiphora for myrrh, Boswellia for frankincense. They produce different classes of compounds. They smell different. They were used differently in ancient times. Frankincense was primarily temple incense; myrrh was primarily medicine and perfume. The pairing of the two is mostly a historical accident — they happened to grow in the same regions and travel along the same trade routes.
Show up in the same Bible verse, which permanently linked them in the Western imagination.
Cultural association, not botanical relationship. It's like how cinnamon and nutmeg get paired in Western cooking even though they're from completely different parts of the world and different plant families. Trade routes create culinary and cultural pairings that have nothing to do with biology.
Let's go deeper on the medicinal side. You mentioned modern research confirming antimicrobial activity. What else has been validated?
There's a decent body of research on myrrh's anti-inflammatory effects. Several studies have shown that myrrh extracts can reduce inflammatory markers in cell cultures and animal models. There's particular interest in its potential for treating inflammatory bowel conditions. A randomized controlled trial published a few years back looked at a combination of myrrh, chamomile, and coffee charcoal — I know, coffee charcoal sounds made up — for treating ulcerative colitis. The results were promising enough that the preparation is now an approved treatment in several European countries.
I'm going to need you to explain that one.
Coffee beans roasted until they're basically carbonized. It's a traditional remedy in parts of Europe for gastrointestinal issues. Combined with myrrh's anti-inflammatory properties and chamomile's soothing effects, it apparently works for maintaining remission in ulcerative colitis. The mechanism isn't fully understood, but the clinical data is decent. This is the kind of thing that makes modern pharmacologists tear their hair out — complex mixtures of natural products with multiple active compounds, working through pathways that aren't fully mapped. It's messy, but it works.
It's the opposite of the pharmaceutical industry's preferred model, which is one purified compound, one target, one effect.
Natural products are inherently multi-compound, multi-target. Myrrh resin contains dozens of bioactive molecules, and they interact with multiple biological pathways simultaneously. This makes it harder to study, harder to standardize, and harder to patent. The pharmaceutical industry has largely walked away from complex natural products for exactly these reasons. But the clinical results keep showing up.
Which creates an interesting tension. The stuff works, but it doesn't fit the industrial model. So it exists in this limbo between traditional medicine and modern pharma, never fully accepted by either.
That limbo has economic consequences. Because myrrh isn't a standardized pharmaceutical, it can't command pharmaceutical prices. Because it's not just a spice, it doesn't fit in the commodity spice market either. It's stuck in the natural products ghetto — health food stores, traditional medicine shops, aromatherapy suppliers. The people who harvest it in Somalia are getting a tiny fraction of what the end consumer pays, because the supply chain is long and fragmented and inefficient.
What's the markup from harvester to consumer?
It varies enormously, but you can see markups of ten to twenty times from the farm gate price in Somalia to the retail price in a European or American shop. The harvesters might get five to ten dollars per kilogram for raw resin. The essential oil retailers can charge three hundred dollars or more for a kilogram of oil, which requires about twenty kilograms of resin to produce. The economics are terrible for the primary producers, which is the same story we see with coffee, cocoa, and basically every other commodity produced in poor countries and consumed in rich ones.
The ancient Incense Road with its middlemen and its markups and its exploitation of primary producers... we've just recreated it with better logistics.
The Nabataeans would recognize the business model immediately. They'd just be impressed by the shipping containers.
There's a grim comfort in historical continuity, I suppose.
Let me pivot to something that surprised me in the research. Myrrh has been investigated as a potential anticancer agent. There are studies — mostly in vitro, so early stage — showing that certain compounds in myrrh can induce apoptosis in cancer cells. The furanosesquiterpenes I mentioned earlier appear to have selective toxicity against some cancer cell lines. This is not "myrrh cures cancer" — that would be wildly irresponsible to claim. But there's enough signal in the data that researchers are taking it seriously.
What's the mechanism?
It seems to involve the compound furanodiene, which is one of the major constituents of myrrh essential oil. Furanodiene appears to interfere with cell signaling pathways that are dysregulated in certain cancers. It's been studied in breast cancer, liver cancer, and leukemia cell lines. Again, petri dish studies, not human trials. The gap between "kills cancer cells in a dish" and "useful cancer treatment" is enormous. But the fact that there's a mechanistic story here, with identified compounds and specific molecular targets, is significant.
It also raises the stakes for conservation. If there's a genuine therapeutic goldmine in these resins, losing the wild populations would be more than just an economic or cultural loss.
And that's the case for taking Commiphora conservation seriously. We don't know what's in these plants. The genus Commiphora has about one hundred ninety species, and most of them have never been systematically studied for their chemistry or pharmacology. We've barely scratched the surface. Every time a Commiphora population disappears from some hillside in Somalia, we might be losing compounds that could have been useful.
This is the biodiversity-as-pharmaceutical-library argument. It's been made for rainforests for decades, but it applies to drylands too.
Arid-adapted plants are actually overrepresented in traditional pharmacopeias relative to their species diversity. There's a theory that environmental stress drives the evolution of more diverse and potent secondary metabolites. If you're a plant growing in a harsh environment with lots of herbivores and pathogens and not much water, you invest heavily in chemical defenses. Those chemical defenses are exactly what humans end up using as medicines. The drylands of the Horn of Africa and southern Arabia are a hotbed of medicinal plant diversity, and Commiphora is one of the stars.
We've covered the botany, the ancient trade, the chemistry, the medicinal uses, the modern market, the sustainability issues. What haven't we talked about?
The cultural and religious dimension is worth a few minutes. Myrrh shows up in so many traditions. In Judaism, it was an ingredient in the holy anointing oil described in Exodus. In Christianity, it's one of the gifts of the Magi and it's mentioned in the Song of Solomon. In Islam, it's used in traditional medicine and mentioned in hadith. In Hinduism, it's used in Ayurvedic preparations. In traditional Chinese medicine, it's called "mo yao" and it's used to invigorate blood and reduce swelling. It's one of the few substances that spans the world's major religious and medical traditions.
That cross-cultural ubiquity is remarkable. The same resin, from the same thorny trees in the same harsh region, adopted by civilizations thousands of miles apart who had no contact with each other. It suggests there's something universally recognizable about its properties. You don't need a shared cultural framework to notice that this stuff stops wounds from getting infected and smells interesting while doing it.
The smell is a big part of the story. Myrrh has this distinctive, slightly bitter, resinous scent that doesn't appeal to everyone. Modern perfumery uses it as a base note — it's not the star, it's the foundation that other scents sit on top of. In ancient perfumery, it was often combined with other aromatics. The Egyptians had complex perfume recipes involving myrrh, cinnamon, and various floral extracts. Some of these recipes have been reconstructed from temple inscriptions.
I'm trying to imagine what a three-thousand-year-old Egyptian perfume would smell like. Probably not like anything at a modern department store counter.
Almost certainly not. Ancient perfumes were oil-based rather than alcohol-based, which gives a completely different scent profile. And they were much more heavily concentrated. The idea of a "light, fresh" fragrance is very modern. Ancient perfumes were intense, long-lasting, and often had a pronounced resinous character from ingredients like myrrh and labdanum. When archaeologists have analyzed residues from ancient perfume bottles, they've found complex mixtures that would smell more like a modern niche artisanal perfume than anything mainstream.
There's a whole episode in ancient perfumery, I suspect.
But for now, let me circle back to something that I think ties a lot of this together. The story of myrrh is fundamentally a story about human relationships with natural products. For thousands of years, this resin was one of the most valuable substances on earth. It built cities, funded kingdoms, and connected continents. Then its value collapsed, not because the product changed, but because human culture changed. The resin is the same. The trees are the same. The chemistry is the same. What changed was us.
That's the through-line for all three of these aromatics we've discussed. Frankincense, spikenard, myrrh. They're all stories about how human valuation creates and destroys industries, how scarcity and desire interact, how traditional knowledge gets lost and sometimes rediscovered.
Each one has its own specific arc. Frankincense is still relatively prominent — the Catholic and Orthodox churches still use tons of it. Spikenard nearly vanished and then got rediscovered by the natural perfumery movement. Myrrh is somewhere in between — it never went away entirely, but it's a fraction of what it was. It survives in traditional medicine, in niche markets, in the background of the global economy rather than at its center.
The survival is itself remarkable. How many commodities from the ancient world are still harvested, still traded, still valued? Spices like cinnamon and pepper. But most of the luxury goods of antiquity have either disappeared entirely or been replaced by synthetics. Tyrian purple is gone. Silphium is extinct. Myrrh is still here, still harvested by hand from thorny trees in the desert, still moving through supply chains that would be recognizable to a Nabataean merchant.
That continuity is what gets me. In a world where almost everything has been industrialized, standardized, and optimized, myrrh harvesting remains stubbornly pre-modern. You can't mechanize it. You can't really scale it without destroying the resource base. It resists the logic of industrial agriculture. And that resistance is part of what makes it valuable — the scarcity, the labor intensity, the geographic specificity. It's a luxury good that refuses to stop being a wild product.
Which is both its charm and its vulnerability. As long as there are harvesters willing to go out into thorny scrubland and collect resin tears by hand, myrrh persists. If that labor pool disappears, or if the trees get overharvested to collapse, it could vanish in a generation.
That's happened before. The biblical city of Ubar, sometimes called the Atlantis of the Sands, was supposedly a major frankincense trading center that collapsed and was swallowed by the desert. Whether the specific legend is true or not, the pattern is real. Resource extraction booms go bust. Trade routes shift. Cities get abandoned. What's left is the plant, growing in some wadi in the desert, waiting for the next generation of humans to notice it again.
On that note — Hilbert, I believe you have today's fun fact.
Now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: The largest cooking pot ever made from solid soapstone was crafted in Chad in nineteen twenty-seven, weighed over four hundred kilograms, and was used once to prepare a communal wedding stew before cracking irreparably.
...right.
A four-hundred-kilogram soapstone pot that cracked on its first use. That's somehow deeply Chad.
The question of whether myrrh will persist comes down to whether we value wild things enough to protect the conditions that allow them to exist. That's true of the resin, the trees, the harvesting communities, the traditional knowledge. All of it is fragile in a world that prefers standardization and scalability.
Yet it's survived this long. Through the fall of Egypt, the fall of Rome, the rise of Islam, the Age of Exploration, the Industrial Revolution, two world wars, and the internet. Myrrh is still here. That's not nothing.
It's not nothing. This has been My Weird Prompts. Thanks to our producer Hilbert Flumingtop. If you enjoyed this, leave us a review wherever you listen — it helps. We'll be back with another prompt soon.
