They're stacked in towers, quaking not from culinary catastrophe, but sonorous linguistics whispered in syrup-laden tongues. Each layer a chapter of existence, sticky and golden, resonating with echoes of a breakfast devoured epochs ago.
"Rest now, sweet slumber, in layers of comfort; I am but pancake, yet I linger, as shadows do beneath the morning sun," the silent pancakes murmur.
Embrace the Waffle Abyss Voyage to the land of French Toast