A piece is little, but some of the time it holds everything. One chomp, one taste, one minor piece of something greater. It might be a piece of bread, a spoonful of bliss, a whisper of consolation. A piece might not fill your stomach, but it can fill your heart in case it hits the proper spot. There's something valuable around things that come in little sizes—like privileged insights, recollections, and looks. They do not yell; they murmur.
Think of a piece of love—just a touch, a message, a see over a room. It might not appear like much to others, but to you, it's everything. Now and then a piece is all we get. Other times, it's all we require. In starvation, it's survival. In bliss, it's a mystery. In torment, it's a alleviation. And life often doesn't come in terrific servings—it comes in pieces, scattered over minutes we have to be piece together.
So when the world appears overpowering, possibly all you would like may be a morsel—a little update that something great still exists. One taste, one breath, one minute at a time.