When I came to, I was in a toaster factory. I found myself on holy ground. Here was where the countertop altars had their source.
The bread is an offering, placed lovingly in the sconces that hold it. The toaster gleams in the morning sunlight. What is the pushing down of the lever if not a genuflection? The waiting teaches us the transience of time’s passage. The miracle is heralded by a creaky springing noise as there emerges not the offering placed there, but an entirely new substance of such divine structure and texture as to support all manner of toppings. The potency of its holy energy will burn your fingers if you hold onto it for too long, so you must be quick as you transfer it from the altar to your plate. And then the toast is yours to do with as you will.
And now I stood in the place where all that wonder began.