I ate it before breakfast – one square square, intense and dark. The cherry did tango with the chocolate. Then they disappeared from the darkened dance floor, gliding under the palatine uvula disco ball. No glimmers or sparkles or flashy flashes traced their exit. Only the crinkly, castrated foily sheath lies beside me on the sheet.
An empty brown bottle stands under the lamp on my bedside table, sentry of the solitude. In the dark that was not chocolate, it offered me hard cider from an angry orchard. Personification. Just a stupid knocked-up word, but I am filled with its pregnancy. Angry orchards and castrated sheaths, puffed up pillows and barren blankets. The fertile fog of futility fills the frigid room. Life spirals down the tubes, but only the proverbial ones.
I eat and drink alone in bed and find amusing ways to uncover this naked truth. That is all I am revealing. There is not more.