Strange ripples in time, bread loaves whispering secrets of yesterday. Morsels of dreams, crumbled in the corners of imagined kitchens.
Each slice a portal, impossibly golden, butterfingers transitioning into flickering shadows. Watch the crust, listen to the crunch, taste the echoes of laughter.
A baker beneath a full moon, the horizon draped in light—
“Do you feel the bite?” she asks, kneading stars into the dough of night. Silvery flour coats her fingertips, she shapes the dreams and...
Entering the moth’s wing restaurant, the menu lists nothing but warmth and warmth. A break of dawn is hidden in the awkward croissants and jagged baguettes.
Links are dreams, scattered like crumbs on a forest path.
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