The bakery is like a body without organs, a surface whose primary functions have been exfoliated into a howling dimension. Freedom, should we accept that nicety, is contemporaneous with existence, such that there is not a moment that we are not free, and becoming unbound, we skitter and oscillate between lunar poles. What would it mean to conceive of a tangent to the surface of the Earth? Would that tangent land you in a mixing bowl or upon a dough hook? Perhaps in a vat of cookie dough or upon a crumb lying on the slicing room floor.