I dream about croissants last night; I dreamt that they took over the world. Croissants lined every bedroom, every tower, every military plane. They lined every cruise ship, every virgin's nightgown, every baby's bib.
And then my fingers started pouring coffee, black coffee, Nicaraguan coffee, ripe with the colour and flavour of autumn. The notes swirled around in my blood, in my vessels, in my veins—and they formed good songs. In my songs you heard the tune of juicy peaches, fuzzy apricots, sweet dates, tart cherries.
It was an experience so decadent I would choose to leave this to my descendants. Forget an estate or a car or a farm or a business or a diamond ring—this is worth all of those things and more.
Fragrant butter, flaky pastry, rivers of black gold—ooh la la! What could be better? More perfect?