Dear bread of the world,
Life is short; I've learned to accept that. Either sit here and rot away, or wait until some one cuts in to my flesh burns me alive. Sometimes they dip me in a hot vat of liquid, or suffocate me in butter. From the day I first came out of the oven I knew my place in life. That all I had to live for was dying in the hands of they hungry, or discarded at the hands of the picky. Woe is the life of bread, whether you have got all your grain or not, even those with the fancy swirls. It's not a matter of loaf or death, but only death. Life is short.
Your friendly neighborhood pumpernickel,