I am waiting for Hot Bread to Cool.

I am up way way way too late.  There is bread in a bread machine that is done, but way way way too hot to touch.  I can prove that to you by showing you the red line across the tips of three of my fingers on my right hand:  it is the melted line of skin that shows the bread is Too Hot To Touch.

But those fingers will heal, and life goes on.  Bread goes on.  Skin goes on.  And you can let that life knock you down, or you can put your dukes up and fight it till the bitter, wonderful end.

Life is like bread, you know.  It's chock full of recipe-book crap, and grows until it's baked.  And then it's eaten, and all you are left with is crumbs.  Wait, wait.

Life is like crumbs I mean.  No, scratch that.  Life is like yeast, and as long as it's kept in a warm, safe place, it will continue to grow and rise and make things.  But the second you expose it to too much ultra-violet light, that yeast is up shit's creek.

Ah, screw it.  I am not a baker.