Requiem for a dream
Yesterday I brought my Spanish class Belgian chocolates. I’m not a very likeable person by nature, you see. I have to buy affection. I bribe people into liking me.
But you see ladies, I’m just like the Belgian chocolates I offer you: a very dark, almost bitter tasting fondant shell. But if you dare to take only the smallest of bites, your taste buds will discover the richest panoply of flavours. Both sour and sweet. The most exotic aromas will caress your tongue and lips and leave you ecstatic. Just one little lick and you’ll be hooked.
You’ll want to wallow yourself in the liquorish caramel that is my love and sprinkle your voluptuous curves with little chunks of my passion. I will cling to your sticky back as a wrapper to a toffee.
You’ll stuff your face, you’ll want the whole box and you won’t even want to share with your best friend. You’ll have to tell her about this amuse bouche off course. Tell, but never share. You’ll be longing for that last drip hanging from the corner of your mouth. And when you come home at night and find your little box of lusciousness missing, you’ll fall to your knees, raise your eyes to the heavens and cry: More! More! More!
And then my alarm went off. Shower. Brush teeth. Tram. Work…
Yesterday I brought my Spanish class Belgian chocolates. I’m not a very likeable person by nature, you see. I have to buy affection. I bribe people into liking me.
But you see ladies, I’m just like the Belgian chocolates I offer you: a very dark, almost bitter tasting fondant shell. But if you dare to take only the smallest of bites, your taste buds will discover the richest panoply of flavours. Both sour and sweet. The most exotic aromas will caress your tongue and lips and leave you ecstatic. Just one little lick and you’ll be hooked.
You’ll want to wallow yourself in the liquorish caramel that is my love and sprinkle your voluptuous curves with little chunks of my passion. I will cling to your sticky back as a wrapper to a toffee.
You’ll stuff your face, you’ll want the whole box and you won’t even want to share with your best friend. You’ll have to tell her about this amuse bouche off course. Tell, but never share. You’ll be longing for that last drip hanging from the corner of your mouth. And when you come home at night and find your little box of lusciousness missing, you’ll fall to your knees, raise your eyes to the heavens and cry: More! More! More!
And then my alarm went off. Shower. Brush teeth. Tram. Work…
