Lost, but never to be found. It didn't exist at all. Can it be made? Shared and improved? Slowly grown by taste and touch, feel and learning?
Touching grooves with oily fingertips, seek out pleasure and reason. Necessity beckons. Find a mould in which to curl up inside and rise like a bountiful cake. When done, slip out easily, confident and beautiful. A sight to be seen, opportunity and hot presence, a languishing dough has transformed into souffléed glory.
It still won't exist. It can't be grown. It won't transcend across hot smoked deserts and wild baron plains to find its host.
There is a way to create. Do not force. Do not wait. Hope may offer itself, but if it is inherently lost due to an emptiness from the start. It cannot be found.