I’ve never imagined that my fork is sharp enough to dive through the layer after layer of cream and airy crusts singing with the scream of dying bubbles with each chew.

I washed off the taste of guilt with a gulp of bitter oolong.

That reminded me of the possibilities: layers, layer, what could they symbolize? Is there a difference between a layered onion and a slice of layered cake from Lady M? Does the existence of sugar differentiate cake from the tear jerking root vegetable capable of so much?

I suppose I am going to stop here for now: instead of delving into the layers of my mind now that I have it all figured out, I am to delve into the layers of desserts and not thoughts, for thoughts are onions and stripping them away merely make me cry.


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