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It's been twelve hours since I locked myself in the place I always find my solace. The bakehouse. I am running on a pure, unadulterated sadness-induced turbo boost. There's flour embedded in the grooves of my skin, likely harvesting miniature loaves of bread for my epidermis to gobble right up.
I slept a total of maybe ten minutes, tossing from one side of my self to the other until I finally slung my feet over the edge of my bed, slid into a comfy lounge set, and traveled the entire way to the bakehouse on foot.
Since then, I've been kneading dough and concocting and executing an absurd amount of experimental recipes with hopes reality would warp and become an infinite loop of combining ingredients, stirring, scooping, baking, setting timers, tugging out finished trays, plating, tasting, and beginning again.
It's my form of therapy. My saving grace amidst the turmoil that has consumed my world after the four word statement that left Lucky's lips the night before, no matter how much I've put every recipe to shame by burning them all to a cinder.
I stare at my latest. Burnt macadamia nut cookies with vanilla filling. Chard to a crisp, I stare at the arrangement of what were once a cream-colored nuts, which now resemble chocolate chips. The baked dough crumbles like charcoal beneath my trembling fingertips.
