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
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