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| - Oh, goddamn you, New York Times, for writing an article that mentions Lilly's. It's MY secret. You weren't supposed to know. Lilly's is the kind of store that gets whispered about from person to person: "Have you had Lilly's? You HAVEN'T? Well, I'll have to take some to you some time."
Then, when you're having a bad day, someone shows up with a precious bite or two from Lilly's chocolate in a very gaudy bag. You reluctantly open it up; you're having a terrible day, your boss yelled at you, your landlord's a jerk, your lover is inattentive, how much difference can a chocolate make?
...You bite off just a tiny bit. Everything is made okay in a wash of rich chocolate. World peace lies inside that chocolate.
Then you wait until someone ELSE is having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day, and you promise to bring them a Lilly's chocolate. Just one. Or maybe two. That's all it takes.
That's what Lilly's is. And these New York Times-fuelled apes will doubtlessly thunder in, their hairy thick hands ready to just gobble these chocolates like they were Mars bars or something, breathing through their mouths, and they will not know.
Lilly's is sacred. You buy some wine, you buy some banana beer, you buy some of the sparsely cool merch, and you take a tiny box home and you savor it because all the glories of the world lie inside that little box. Waiting. Waiting for the rainy day to come, and you nibble, and there's sunshine.
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