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    And when a man sins a little and falls into sin: He gurgles chocolates down his throat with improper methods, He gives final honour to one-man cakes to passions as lofty and sublime as being in love! To become one: with the immortal and yet metaphorically changing dough body of flour, water and eggs, with its delicious, bohemian pairings, it is possible to create rebirth. - One can sense and feel that the subtle, superstitious details do not yet create - only through hard work A morsel of only tastes, smells, and thoughts - a redemptive noble task: to rename men into unity, into a common wavelength, if it is still possible! 

    In the furnace's bosom-bowls of plenty, In the flame-caves' naked beds, Millions have been born by the flame: Diligent re-doers, may yet recreate The dough made by man's hand. How many wonders, strange and uplifting, And how many more may the deserved fruit of our patience, Waiting for harmony, unfurl? 

    And how the dough's shape fills out and swells: it resembles a blessed maternity, while its waistline grows in a curved curve, and it tans as if the sun were caressing it. See, there will be plenty of good, and all that is hatched will be gently, with motherly tact, brought out, taking care not to crack a single particle, 

    and clothed in a heavenly robe of sifting powdered sugar, which waves like snow, and sweetens as the more tiny pearl-balls the dust sprinkles! - We wait with anxious stomachs still growling. In the attic of our mouths the charms have meanwhile taken hold, and the roasted bride has been served straight to our table!

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