Every so often, breakfast from the Metropolitan Bakery on a rainy Monday morning is a profound enough experience to liken to the religious or ecstatic. Strong, bitter iced coffee with skim milk and an apricot-cream cheese danish with an almost-burned sugar crust on the outside. There is a charging in my chest that can only mean that I am in love. How will I get through the rest of my day if I already feel this strongly about breakfast?
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