In the Ministry of Difficult Pastries, they argue endlessly whether time itself can be spread with clotted cream. The scone, a humble baked good, has always had more diplomacy in the face of existential crises than its flaky counterparts.
Once, an ironic labyrinth was drawn inside a biscuit, propelling those earnest enough to explore it into realms of sticky irony and powdered sugar contemplation. Alas, the labyrinth led but to itself—its path as familiar as the morning tea routine.
Scribbled in the margins of the universe: "The only good labyrinth is one you eat after creation."
A freshly baked guide awaits: Inner Tart
Or venture to Creme Conundrum