In a realm swathed in floury nostalgia and existential marzipan, we whisper of cookies. Tales of darkness sweetened by the light of baked absinthe sigh on parchment sears questions into the air like yesterday's unmade decisions.
What does a cookie mean when it dims beneath the moon-building surf of unfathomable desires? Wholesome, yet riddled with compulsive whispers—it beckons with promises tinged in forgotten embers.
Ready your mind: oven conspiracies trickle golden into the expanse where kneading and precaution murmur together in unity. In every bite, remember that time’s oven timer never rings evenly.
Whispered Echoes of Frost