Success

Riddle out the breadcrumbs, off they go. These are the morsels that have fallen off into the grinding, shuffling like atoms, submerged at the feet of tables, locking time for stones. And all kinds, stones of multiplicity, gems or phones composed of the same nature, all appliances for maximally bound vehicles and the boldest properties.

They are physically connected or lately consumed. The stones, their bleak but consolidated physique. Not the bread, or the crumbs, so latent in old, at no true price to defer immediacy.

It is the wheat that is sickle, bundled in string after string, to be gathered in masses, produced then eaten.

Yet the work of consummate treasure is a fool's stone, if only to be reaping profits out of more bread. In getting the cut, the crafted cut of milestones, not like they are subdivided raw, sliced in quality and color.

It is a good thing, however, that loaves can be baked, stuffed, or warmly enjoyed. As to feel so valued and hotly renowned, homemade, soulful, rich as gold, all depending on matters of degree.