Eating chocolate is often compared to generating the swoony feelings of being in love, but true chocolate aficionados deny this. Chocolate is better, they maintain. Stronger. The passions it generates are far more urgent.

Consider this: You stand before a candy store case of chocolates, and the array overwhelms you. Chocolate-covered marshmallows, chocolate-covered almonds, fruits, buttercream, caramel. You brace both hands against the counter, you sigh, you wish you could order one of everything, but that would turn your stomach into an exploded Bunsen burner.

We few, we band of brothers and sisters, all six billion of us on planet earth, have identified the problem and we’ve identified the solution. We’re all in agreement about who is what. Even those who are classified as the problem know they’re the problem. And yet they continue to charge around like the bulls of Pamplona. I’m talking, of course, about drivers of cars.

Twinkling Ingmar Bergmanesque lights sparkled in the spooky, dark woods of Chilmark. A big bowl of baby tomatoes sat on an outdoor table. Inside the anterior barn space at the Yard, the makeshift stage was adorned with microphones, drums and a hand-waving papier-mâché R2-D2. It seemed everyone and everything was welcome at the Satsang Lounge.