Hold on a second, breathe with me. It's the last one, you know? The final biscotti awaits its destiny.

There's something about that light crunch. A gentle embrace of warmth before it meets the soothing sip. It's curled here next to me, in the stillness of the amber afternoon. I'm not sure if it fears solitude—it doesn’t seem to mind.

Do I dip or do I let it be? The question floats like leaves on a pond. There's a beauty in the untouched, isn't there? All perfect edges, holding stories untold. A moment, trapped like honey in the comb, obediently waiting.

But ah, temptation. Biscuits like this don’t get to say when, who knows about tomorrows? I imagine its crumble, a gentle scattering, almost tender. Remember not to rush. Let it be your company, your quiet friend.

Fancy another?
Or perhaps a journey in biscuit belief can await you at noneexistthis.com, where time bends softly about midnight cookies.

Each crumb a testament to lives small, sans sorrow. Even biscuit souls relish in unknown tales spilling forth slowly, like the last wisps of your favorite song. A quiet exhale. A decision rests.