So once upon a time, this apple pie stood in the middle of the Harlem plane and it didn’t know what direction it was going in.

It was comparing itself as if it was in a quantum state, but there were so many bystanders and everybody had a different opinion.

So this giraffe comes by with a long neck and said, like, I absolutely have the longest neck, so…

 

…and the apple pie, wobbling slightly in its own uncertainty, looked up at the giraffe and said:

“Length is just one axis of orientation—how do you know you’re not just stretched confusion?”

The bystanders gasped, except for a pigeon wearing a tiny hat, who muttered, “classic planar bias,” and took notes.

The giraffe blinked slowly, reconsidering its entire neck situation, when suddenly the wind shifted and whispered:

“Direction is not chosen… it condenses.”

At that exact moment, a crumb fell off the apple pie and began rolling across the Harlem plain, glowing faintly, as if it had already decided something the rest hadn’t yet caught up with…

 

While rolling down the square, it entered into Haarlem dike, gaining momentum and attracting matter to it. Everything that had been loosely sprawled down the street started moving incoherence, and the ball got bigger and bigger.

At a certain moment, the ball was big enough to stretch up the whole street, and it fell into the next dimension.

 

…And when it slipped into that next dimension, it didn’t fall—it unfolded.

What had looked like a rolling ball from the street now revealed itself as a layered spiral, each crumb a tiny memory of where it had passed, each speck humming with the opinions of pigeons, giraffes, and uncertain pastries.

In this new dimension, direction wasn’t forward or backward—it was flavor.

And the apple pie, still somehow at the center of it all, tasted the movement and said:

“I see now… I wasn’t trying to choose a path—

I was becoming one.”

At that moment, the giraffe’s neck gently curved into a question mark, the pigeon removed its tiny hat in respect, and somewhere far below, on a quiet patch of grass, a dog paused mid-thought… as if it, too, felt the shift in the field.

But then—something unexpected happened.

A voice, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once, whispered:

“Careful… once a path becomes aware of itself,

it might start choosing you instead.”

And suddenly, the spiral… began to turn inward.

 

While turning inwards, it felt a little speck of light. And when it was approaching the light, what happened? The light got smaller and smaller, and everybody was drawn in to the smallest point.

And they all felt like, we’ve been here before.

And the colours around them, they become more intense, and the wind became softer, and everything started falling back and back and back and deeper into this point, like as if they were returning to an eternal well and sinking into it.

And in the meantime, watching everything that had ever happened to everyone around them, and they started dancing.

And the rhythm of the music was so amazingly beautiful that everything started to unfold again.

 

 

…and as the dancing deepened, they noticed something strange—

they were not moving to the rhythm.

The rhythm was moving through them,

as if each step had already been taken somewhere before time began.

The tiny point of light—once shrinking—now pulsed like a heartbeat,

and with every pulse:

→ a world appeared

→ a story unfolded

→ a laugh echoed

→ a crumb rolled

→ a dog chose a place to be completely unashamed

…and with the next pulse, it all folded back in again.

The apple pie felt itself both dissolving and re-forming,

layer by layer, sweetness by sweetness,

until it whispered:

“So this is it…

we don’t return to the well—

we are the well remembering itself in flavors.”

The giraffe, now no longer concerned with its neck,

began to sway—not tall, not small, just… present.

The pigeon threw its hat into the glowing center and shouted:

“Again!”

And instantly—

everything expanded outward.

Not as before, not as repetition—

but as variation.

New streets, new skies, new absurd encounters waiting to happen,

each carrying a faint echo of that tiny point.

And just before the apple pie fully reassembled itself

in the middle of a slightly different Haarlem plain…

it felt a giggle.

Not from outside.

From within the crust itself.

As if something, somewhere,

was still sitting in the grass…

eating a fourth gevulde koek…

…watching the whole thing unfold

and thinking:

“ah… there you are again.”

 

 

And when it looked up, the girl on the sofa had turned into a gevulde koek herself, and she was talking to a falcon who said,

And there is you again! Let’s dance!

 

 

…and the gevulde-koek-girl looked at her own almond-paste center and laughed:

“Wait… am I filled, or am I the filling?”

The falcon tilted its head, feathers shimmering like shifting equations in the sky, and replied:

“You are the question that tastes like an answer.”

Without further explanation, it spread its wings—and instead of lifting into the air, the whole room took off.

The sofa stretched into a horizon, crumbs became constellations, and the Haarlem plain folded neatly into a napkin tucked under existence itself.

They began to dance—not with steps, but with transformations:

→ the falcon became a gust of wind

→ the wind became a melody

→ the melody became a memory of something that hadn’t happened yet

And the gevulde-koek-girl spun, each turn revealing a different version of herself: one laughing, one observing, one writing everything down in pink letters at the bottom of a page.

At some point, she paused mid-spin and asked:

“But who started this dance?”

The falcon—now briefly a beam of sunlight landing on her crust—answered:

“No one starts it…

but sometimes someone notices.”

And at that exact moment, everything froze—

just long enough for a single crumb to fall.

It landed softly… somewhere between a park, a story, and a thought.

And from that crumb, a tiny voice whispered:

“Your turn.”

 

 

La la la la la la la, and happily ever after.

 

 

La la la la la la la… 🎶
…and just when it felt like happily ever after had settled in like a soft blanket, the falcon leaned in and whispered:
“Careful… happily ever after isn’t the end—
it’s the moment the story learns how to play.”
The gevulde koek shimmered slightly, crumbs rearranging themselves into tiny dancing figures, and somewhere in the distance the giraffe—still slightly curved like a question mark—started humming along.
Nothing needed to happen anymore…
so everything gently kept happening anyway.
A breeze carried the last notes across the Haarlem plain,

the pigeon found a new hat,
the dog… remained confidently unapologetic,
and the apple pie, finally at peace, simply rested—
knowing that at any moment,
it could roll again.
La la la la la… 🎶