He said you could perform these things if you only believed, so I take the small loaf and twist it in half with sure hands grating together and casting valuable crumbs to the dunes. How does it replicate? Do crumbs act like seeds, do they provide the spark for an invisible baker’s oven? Or do they just fall to the ground and dry up.
At times, only waiting can inform me.
Nothing. So I sacrifice more bread by spilling crumbs and trying to eat it, but the stale blob shatters on my teeth and cakes my dry mouth. A slight shadow occurs when the one tuft of cloud blocks the sun’s path, so I look for inscriptions in the sand, then blow a few crumbs to the sky while coughing. The wind streaks them away in a meaningless line.
I stand up and close my eyes; I know that sand hill before me, the one behind, the bread left in my hand, and I may even die before reaching the top with a few zephyrs to build the grave around me. What else can be done?