What, indeed, is a crumb? We might think of it as merely a tiny piece of something larger, but let's explore this further. How small must a fragment become before we deem it a crumb? And if we take a crumb and split it, do we then possess two crumbs, or does it cease to be a crumb altogether? How many times can we divide a crumb before it is no longer recognizable as such?
Now, consider the act of reassembling these crumbs. Can one, through some cosmic alchemy, piece them back together into their original form, or have they become something entirely new, something that transcends their origin?
And if we look deeper, aren't we ourselves but a collection of cosmic crumbs—galactic dust gathered from the vast expanses of the universe? Stardust crumbs, each of us. Our very existence woven from the fragments of stars long extinguished, the detritus of the cosmos brought together to form this intricate dance of life.
In this way, the humble crumb mirrors the nature of existence itself: fragmented, divided, and yet, somehow, eternally whole.

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