If I could walk that way, I wouldn't need aftershave

Some days, a certain word will clamor for my attention. Sometimes it's a word with a peculiar resonance of meaning. Sometimes it's a word that just reverberates in an especially rich way. For the past few days, that word has been bar.

As in: bars of gold. Bars of silver! Bars of dark chocolate. The word seems imbued with weight and value: the heft of precious metal in the hand, the sensual melt of cacao bean and cocoa butter against the palate. The special way that breath evaporates off the mirrored or satin surfaces of elements found in the more expensive neighborhoods of the periodic table, and the smooth matte sheen of incipient tastiness encased within a velvety envelope of crystalline snap.

Say it with me now: barrrr.

Did it work?

Try it again.

Must just be me, then. Really, though, you're missing out. I've achieved a sort of synesthesia in my imagination. A bar of  gold becomes tasty and flavorful, edible wealth, and a bar of Michel Cluizel gains the mass and inertia of dense metal. The commonality between the two becomes intuitive, a richness that connects the realms of the pecuniary and the sensual.

It will fade soon, I think, but for now I'm enjoying eating bullion in my mind.