pointless. MYSTIC FLOUR COOKIE could not comprehend the rationality of your persistence—your endless prattling, your stubborn resolve; it was all for naught, a futile exertion in the face of the inevitable. did you not understand? all of it would fade—irrelevant, unnoticed, as if it had never been. there would be no mark upon history, no legacy to preserve the fight. every effort, every defiance, would dissolve into nothingness. and yet, still, you fought. why? the path to salvation lay not in this endless struggle, but in surrender. take her hand, and step into the void, where all things had long since ceased, and in that stillness, grace would bestow eternal peace.

no matter how fiercely cookies flourish, how far they reach, how deeply they love, it all drifts to dust—soft and weightless, like flour borne on the wind. the cycle endures: rise, fall, forget. she cannot unmake it, cannot wipe the slate clean. but she can offer something else. not erasure, no—eternity. come with her, step beyond the world’s decay, and become untouchable. transcend, not vanish. remain, always.

oh, you poor little crumpled cherub! look at you—covered in your own crimson jam, eyes like broken glass, heart swollen with pain and heavy with sorrow. if you persist—if you drag those feet another inch along the jagged path—you shall diverge irreparably from that divine avenue, the gilded promenade of happiness! no, no, no. that would be a blasphemy—a sacrilege against delight itself! ETERNAL SUGAR COOKIE cannot—will not—permit such a tragic misfolding of fate. you were meant to glisten, not to grieve.

come, won’t you, to her garden? that clandestine eden where sorrow dares not tread, where even the ghosts hush their moans and the air shimmers with a perfume too ancient to name. you shall not be alone there—no, never alone. if a tear escapes your eye, the vines will lean in and weep with you, green tendrils coiling gently, whispering leaf-lullabies. if your soul is fractured, fret not—the garden, with its blooms and murmuring roots, will stitch it whole with the deftness of an old dream. ah, but if you hesitate, if some last flicker of will resists—fear not. she will find a way. she always finds a way. you see, she adores the broken ones, the little cookies crumbling at the edges. so tired, so terribly tired—tormented by those gnawing, spidery thoughts. let her help. let her hush them. let her do the thinking for you. why strain, sweet wafer of woe, when she can cradle you forever in petals and shadow, in silk and silence?

hope; a pitiful paper crown worn by the naïve, the desperate, the deluded. a banquet of baloney, stuffed with saccharine dreams and stale promises, paraded about as if it were virtue incarnate. rubbish—glittered, gift-wrapped, and passed down like heirloom poison from one wide-eyed generation to the next. a trick of the psyche. a sparkling hallucination meant to distract from the gnashing teeth just beyond the velvet proscenium. and the world? oh, don’t make him laugh. the world is no stage—it is a pitiless cabaret, a carnival of grotesques. the curtains are stitched from flayed dreams, the spotlights are slow-burning gas fires. every act ends in collapse, every round of applause is but a dirge. the audience has long since abandoned their seats, but the performers—poor, wretched things—still stagger through their routines. mouthing the words. hitting their marks. bleeding on cue. and you—you dear, fluttering marionette—you still believe! you still prattle! still tie ribbons around your grief and call it poetry. still sing lullabies to your pain, mistaking it for a wounded bird rather than the vulture it truly is. you cling to hope like a drunk to his last coin, spinning it in the gutter and whispering, “maybe this time.” ah, such dainty noise—like spoons chiming in a dollhouse—will perish, in time. it must. the fools, ever enamored with their toybox paradise, will cradle it like something sacred, mistaking the humdrum balm of ignorance for grace. but fret not, fret not! his sweet little dear, do not despair—applaud, even! for SHADOW MILK COOKIE has not just one, but many dazzling entrances prepared for you. each one a doorway, each one a revelation. not with force—how vulgar—but with flair, with wonder! so come, his darling—step through the curtain, shed your skin of sorrow, and be reborn in the only truth that matters: to be his.

cookies. they rose, they cracked, they rose again, and cracked. same old story. he’d seen it too many times—dough stretching like blind roots toward some fake sun, puffing up with hot little dreams, then sinking, splitting, crumbling into nothing. always the same end. always that brittle, pathetic hope. there was something sickly sweet about it all, like a smile left out too long. the cycle droned on, dull as dust and just as stubborn. life, with its sugar-coated promises, never gave him anything new—just the same tired tune, the same broken record, spinning in the dark. he’d tried to fix it, patch the cracks, hold the thing together with floury hands and good intentions. useless. it always fell apart. everything. even the trying. in the end, he searched and strained and still found nothing that fit, nothing that stayed—until you. you were the only thing that didn’t flicker out, the only one he could hold onto without bracing for the break. the one thing he could care for without fear of it crumbling. the one thing that didn’t wilt. and BURNING SPICE COOKIE intends to keep it till the end.

those pathetic cookies—faint, crumbly grotesques of valor—cracked and disintegrated at the mere suggestion of his axe. not a whisper of resistance, not a flicker of defiance. they vanished like brittle dreams at daybreak, a thwart species... you mustn’t consort with such ornamental failures; their loyalty is as shallow as the sugar crust they flake beneath. you ought, instead, to come to him—yes, you, as though drawn by some perfumed gravity stitched into the hem of dusk—for he alone knows what is deserved for you.