A Donut

Upon a lonely table, bathed in ordinary light, rests an object of extraordinary gravity. A circle without seam, a torus of fried perfection crowned in white glaze so lustrous it gleams like porcelain kissed by dawn. Sugared rivulets drip and cling as though they were frozen hymns, each crystalline bead a relic of forgotten mornings.

This is no common confection.

This is the Frosted Relic, the Ring of Eternity, the Pastry Primeval.

Forged in oil, tempered in sugar, it has endured where empires have crumbled. Its silence is not emptiness but command — daring all who gaze upon it to measure themselves against its flawless geometry.

It waits. Patient, unyielding, a monument to hunger and hubris alike.