Eating the peach, I feel like a murderer. Time and darkness mean nothing to me, moving forward and back with my white enameled teeth and bloated tongue sating themselves on moist, pulpy flesh. When I suck at the pit that resembles a small mammal's skull, it erases all memory of trouble and strife, of loneliness and the blindings of erotic love, and of the blueprint of a world, in which man, hater of reason, cannot make things right again. Eating the peach, I feel the long wandering, my human hand—once fin and paw— reaching through and across the allegory of Eden, mud, boredom and disease, to bees, solitude and a thousand hairs of grass blowing by chill waters.
TODAY IN SLATE
Slate Plus Early Read: The Self-Made Man
The story of America’s most pliable, pernicious, irrepressible myth.
Rehtaeh Parsons Was the Most Famous Victim in Canada. Now, Journalists Can’t Even Say Her Name.
Mitt Romney May Be Weighing a 2016 Run. That Would Be a Big Mistake.
Amazing Photos From Hong Kong’s Umbrella Revolution
Transparent Is the Fall’s Only Great New Show
Rehtaeh Parsons Was the Most Famous Victim in Canada
Now, journalists can't even say her name.
Lena Dunham, the Book
More shtick than honesty in Not That Kind of Girl.