Dots on the horizon, like deliberately bestrewn breadcrumbs in a dusty fairytale, become my path as I hobble through the loveless land. Broken benches snickers as I sail past on windless days. I chew and chew and chew on every golden dot, seeking sustenance in place of salvation; alas, every gilded moth succumb to the snake’s salivation – an offering made of glue to the fools following the crumbs in the stories of old.