Toast-flavoured soup, served with toast. Toast with toast-flavoured butter, or toast-flavoured butter spread on bread to create a toast illusion, eating it from a slice-shaped china plate. The toaster carefully calibrated to brown within a millisecond of your exact taste, kitchen walls painted to match. Locked away for days concocting toast-flavoured tea and a toast-based breakfast cereal, staying up all night with crumbs accumulating around your eyes, getting under your fingernails, toast smoke in your skin until it comes out in your sweat, you fill the tumble dryer with toast to infuse your washed clothes as they dry. The family intervene and give you an injection to try and get you to stop but you counteract with a prepared potion that is pure liquid toast. And then you’re away, overdosing on toast, sinking into an endless golden retreat where you lie for days on a bed of freshly-buttered toast, you eat toast, dream toast, breathe toast-scented air into your toast-shaped lungs.