In some forgotten corner of the empirically indifferent universe, there exists a bakehouse that does not merely concern itself with the alchemic transformation of flour, butter, and sugar into sublime pastries, but is instead predicated upon the deeper, albeit more unsettling, notion that every croissant, every profiterole, every Danish, is in fact a temporal and transient instantiation of an eternal, ethereal ideal, tangibly elusive like the words spilling from the tongue of a dreamer still half tethered to nocturnal realms.
Question more than it satisfies; the chocolate within is but an illusion, while your being yearns.
Twisted on itself—where does it begin, where does it end, or did time pause in its embrace?
Layers upon layers of what once was, never to be again, coalescing in memory's tender grasp.
There are doorways, or perhaps thresholds, aboard this establishment, leading one not only to different rooms, but perhaps if one dares to speculate a bit far-fetchingly, to different dimensions of the self, where sweetness carries with it sanctity and sometimes salvation, likewise linking us to an infinitely baked moment of existence masking itself as mere pleasure.