Fragments of yesterday wrap themselves in saffron ribbons, as I reach for the flour — a cloud of memories mingling with the scent of burnt offerings. What began as a simple soufflé erupted into a monsoon of flavors, as if Zeno had decided to serve dinner, each dish a paradox of never quite arriving at completion.
Beets sang choruses of dark blues, while pineapple giggled beneath flickering lights. Yes, harvest moons melted into the mashed potatoes — with each weave, a story; with each slice, an echo. Who needs instructions on baking when chaos itself is a recipe?
And with every ingredient, reality shifts — is it a soufflé or a heartfelt dream suspended in peach-colored clouds? Click on the adventure to uncover the layers beneath: