In a forgotten corner of the Mecklenburg kitchen, whispers of whisked tales and flour dreams linger beneath layers of dust and cosmic sugar. The oven hums a hymn, a blend of entropy and harmony, echoing through an aging corridor where time fumbles its recipes.
Begin with a pinch of stardust, lost in the granulation of ordinary salt. Combine with three essences of nowhere—vanilla from the void, chocolate dreams, and butter of the fading day. Mix not with linear thought, but spiral your whisk into the folds of the unknown.
Beneath the quantum layers, the omens are clear: each ingredient stirs an ancient echo, a premonition of wheels turning in realms unseen. The pause between measurements becomes a meditative silence, a reflection of a universe kneading its grand design.
Bake at the temperature of sunset, forgetting degrees or minutes until the horizon crisps at the edge of understanding.
As the last morsel crumbles, remember: every bite is a disruption—a gentle unraveling of stilled space-time, a call to the void that silently absorbs its flavor of being.