Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get. I mean, sometimes there’ll be a sort-of loose guide, but they can only tell you so much of what you’re going to experience when you pop the morsel into your mouth and chew, chew slower. It could be caramel ganache, or a turtle, or that raspberry goop—we eat anyway, knowing we don’t like it. It could be a truffle, it could have a fly, sweet as can be, who flew into get a closer look. It could have tears from a young boy, twelve years old or so, who lives at the factory, in the basement, in a coffin, who’s wondering why he gets all the nasty bits of life from the box—or a broken, little chunk of a razor blade, so when we bite it—it bites us, or a flavor that we didn’t see on the box—not on the guide—tasting like how when we’ve eaten our fill, we will die—making us think,_ _for just long enough to swallow our heads, after mulling them around a bit—we’ll run our tongue through our teeth to see what’s left. Or it could be white-chocolate coconut. Just keep eating and find out.