Days passed. My skin softened. My internal clocks began to tick backwards. While other oranges grew sweeter, I grew bitter. Then, past bitter, I grew sharp . A single wasp, drunk on the fermenting juices of a fallen apple below, landed on my cheek. It did not sting. It bowed. It recognized a kindred spirit of decay.
My mother was a tree in a concrete yard. My father was the smog from a nearby rubber factory. I was conceived in a cough. The other fruits on my branch grew round and fat, dreaming of the juice bar, dreaming of the breakfast plate. They whispered of sweetness, of the simple, solar joy of being squeezed. I Am Kurious Oranj Rar
I dreamed of rot.