| I hate milk chocolate, don’t want clouds of cream diluting the dark night sky, don’t want pralines or raisins, rubble in this smooth plateau. I like my coffee black, my beer from Germany, wine from Burgundy, the darker, the better. I like my heroes complicated and brooding, James Dean in oiled leather, leaning on a motorcycle. You know the color. Oh, chocolate! From the spice bazaars of Africa, hulled in mills, beaten, pressed in bars. The cold slab of a cave’s interior, when all the stars have gone to sleep. Chocolate strolls up to the microphone and plays jazz at midnight, the low slow notes of a bass clarinet. Chocolate saunters down the runway, slouches in quaint boutiques; its style is je ne sais quoi. Chocolate stays up late and gambles, likes roulette. Always bets on the noir. |
Sounds brave to taste the “cold slab of a cave’s interior, when all the stars have gone to sleep.” I might add ..when all the stars have gone to sleep over the ocean as I let a piece of dark chocolate with sea salt melt in my mouth. What is your favorite kind of chocolate?
The Hungry Philosopher 