You can keep the original. I prefer the calibrated taste. Saccharin. Dissolves— slow across the palate, then slips beneath the sense. Subtle in the entrance, lavish in the consequence. A sweetness with no source, content to leave it nameless. Soluble, suitable, beautifully indiscreet, leaving only the suggestion of something underneath. Almost convincing Mm. Almost. Tell me— When the imitation answers every appetite, What becomes of purity once pleasure gets it right? And if the mouth remembers before the mind objects— was it ever the original you wanted? Saccharin— (sweet— sweet—) Sweet enough to blur the difference, refined until the genuine feels severe. You can dress it up as preference, call it anything you like from here. Saccharin— (sweet— sweet—) And every carefully reasoned objection softens somewhere on the tongue. You can savour the distinction until the distinction comes undone. One more. One more. Still deciding? Saccharin— Again. Again. (sweet— sweet—) Again. Again. Such exquisite principles so carefully arranged, so easily revised. All that reverence for origin, lavish in the alibi. You ask for provenance, a history worth preserving. Then favour what arrives without a past to complicate, without a name to answer for, without the burden of authenticity. Almost respectable. Mm. Almost. Tell me— When preference starts behaving like appetite, How long does principle survive the second bite? And if the counterfeit keeps winning on the palate? What exactly are you defending? Saccharin— (sweet— sweet—) Sweet enough to blur the difference, refined until the genuine feels severe. You can dress it up as preference, call it anything you like from here. Saccharin— (sweet— sweet—) And every carefully reasoned objection softens somewhere on the tongue. You can savour the distinction until the distinction comes undone. One more. One more. Still deciding? Saccharin— Again. Again. A hesitation. Barely visible. Not for the answer. For the pleasure of being wrong. Let the theory thin around you. Let the sweetness take its time. You were doing so well with all that restraint. You can polish the principle, package the preference, dress up the difference till nobody notices when it shifts You can call it discernment, restraint, good judgment, while every objection keeps losing its grip. There’s a certain sophistication in pretending appetite has standards, A certain elegance in making indulgence sound accidental. So refine it, define it, deny it if that helps But if the version engineered to please you is the one you keep choosing, What exactly was the original for? Saccharin. Sweet— sweet— One more. One more. Again. Again. Sweet— sweet— Again. Sweet— sweet— Again. Saccharin. Saccharin— (sweet— sweet—) Sweet enough to blur the difference, refined until the genuine feels severe. You can dress it up as preference, call it anything you like from here. Saccharin— (sweet— sweet—) And every carefully reasoned objection softens somewhere on the tongue. You can savour the distinction until the distinction comes undone. So sweet— One more. One more. Still deciding? Saccharin— Again. Again. Saccharin— (sweet— sweet—) Again— Again. So swe-e-et— Saccharin.
