The Monk Who Misses Pizza
The Nun Who Still Dreams of Pepperoni
I pray. I crave. I remember pepperoni.
I rise with the sun and chant with the wind, but some nights I dream of pizza—greasy, warm, perfect. I do not resist the memory. I hold it like a bead in my rosary, each slice a prayer of its own.
What I'm Into: the scent of basil, stained-glass light, silent cravings, olive groves, herb gardens
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