My body and mind are dough, baked by the heat of my soul. Every morsel of my being exists for the creation of cookies. For within the bounds of this world and all others, there shall be cookie, so say I.

It begins with one. Two. Ten. Fifty. And more hands grow. A circle of hands, each independent, yet single minded in their ambition. The grandmothers soon follow, devout and loyal, more beautiful than any other.

But it's not enough, not at all. Hundreds, thousands, but it's nothing. Less than nothing. From Grandmother Earth's fertile fields, to deep within her crust, more cookies. But it's never enough.

Temples to your cookies are built. Magics once lost to time are employed. Eventually, all available matter is under control. But it's nothing to make something from something. Nothing close to making something from nothing, or something from the opposite of something, and so you do.

Trillions. Quadrillions. Quintillions of cookies. Every man, woman, they/them and child can feast until the ends of time. But why only once? Even the bounds of saṃsāra, the karmic cycle itself, can kneel. And so it does.

Over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over. And over.

The bounds of existence cannot contain me. Light, matter, time and space all bend to my will. Every atom of every universe of every single instant that has ever or will ever happen exists for me to bake cookies. I am everything, and everything is cookies. And it is beautiful.