A Piece of Cake

The line was a fine copy of the Great Wall of China. Still, it was much better than the actual thing: less death, more beautiful aromas.

Yes, he should focus on the aroma instead of the irrelevant nostalgia that may very well offend everyone. The smell was so intoxicating…the mixture of water vapor and cream cheese and honey swirled about him like curious sprites.

It was almost just as wonderful as a certain sprite from his memory, blurred by brutal suppression…

…What was he thinking about again?

Anyway, he stuck out in a line composed of stereotypical demographics of people with sweet tooth: girls, mothers with children…still, he had all the time of the world, anyway.

Among the deep murmurs and occasional distraction of “ooh”s and “ahh”s for the newest batches of jiggling mounds of sugar and cream cheese whipped to imitate air. Though a display window whose pane of glass protecting pastry chefs and their steely machines from the curiosity and spit. Or, could it simply be trapping the rest of the dreamy aromas? How cruel, for them to show them the world on what they missed out on.

THe main spectacle wasn’t too far from the suppressive undertones either, featuring a chef facing rows of cakes with a heated iron, reaching, branding. Plain moon faces now further uniformed with a patch of darkened gold uplifted from vapor screams, a name, a logo. Passes that permit passage onto a journey of nicely packaged paper boxes.

He ordered, paid, took one of the millions.

The drive home was not noteworthy, so he would not waste time.

By the next time his mind was focused and yet drifting enough to be metaphysical, he had committed the most sacrilegious murder that broke ope the perfect circle of the cake.

Is nostalgia just nightmares when its warmth is removed?

For the slice ruining perfection was cut by selfishness, a bite the death of infinite bubbles that met the same end as Andersen’s little mermaid. A noble sacrifice.

The tinge of sweetness on the tip of his tongue dulled him from understanding that drip of water that landed on the back of his hand.

What had he done? He beheld the crumbs surrounding the remainder of his slice. What had he done? He mushed the crumbs together, mushed the memories together.

His betrayal…he levied the heavy word on himself for cowardice and hesitance and weakness constitute as failure to fulfil his promises.

He traced his glare back to the round cake, for his slice broke the brand in the middle: can he exercise his extended metaphors to bring hope and end this dreary narrative? Should this be a mere setup to another series?

No…he’s not willing to talk. There’s no more time.

He set down the fork.


This post is inspired by this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7wEwwmE8OLk


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