At the bottom of the toaster, there is a diminutive desert where the tiny bits of bread have gathered and blow into dunes and traps—beaches even, where a fairly vast silver sea rides smooth to glowing orange streaked horizons, and slim creatures dance mamboesque. The corner of my eye dropped a tear down the slot, and in it, a piece of my eye. Riding a lash, this small globule of gelatine kept watch for me near the shore.
There was nothing to see but grains that sat dreaming of bread, as they became sand. And the little eye dreamt a silicon dream, dried up, and rolled ashore, nestling its crusting bulbs among the jagged tids and bits of the crumbs—trading dreams.