Kāds mans draugs mēdz nostaigāt astoņpadsmit kilometrus, lai pagasta centrā apēstu simt gramu šokolādes. Viņš saka – bez ceļa nevarot izprast šokolādes dabu. Kā tā iestaro kapilāros, aizsveļ dzīslas. Melnā saule, kad tu grauzdams to grauz, kad tu žokļos to samal kā maizi, uz veikala lievenēm ar seju pret ledaino vēju .
Kad tu domā – vēl astoņpadsmit kilometru mājupceļš. Gar jūru. Un šokolāde. Un tava āda pēkšņi kā vijoļāda. Un ziemeļrietenis kā vijoles lociņš.
Jā, bet ciena viņš Bitter nez kāpēc.
Igauņu rūgto.
Saka, ka tuvāk pie sirds.
A friend of mine will walk eighteen kilometers, in order to eat a hundred grams of chocolate in the center of the parish. He says – without the journey he can’t understand the nature of chocolate. How it rays into capillaries, flows into veins. Black sun, when you nibble away at it, when your jaws grind it like bread on the store porch with your face to the icy wind.
When you think – still eighteen kilometers to journey home. Along the sea. And chocolate. And your skin is suddenly like a violin. And the north wind the violin bow.
Yes, but he treats himself to Bitter, who knows why.
Estonian Bitter.
Says, it’s closer to his heart.