i find myself a dwarf in the orchard. my teeth long for the flesh of good apple, but i am far below even the lowest boughs. in rage, i swing at leaves, fruitlessly shaking the heavy trunks. if only my repast were as great as my anger - if only dreams were not mist and quicksilver. i whirl like a dervish, ankle-deep in rotten pulp of fallen fruit. my feet are slick with the mottled skin of an overripe harvest; of which, i cannot partake. ultimately, i will find exhaustion waiting at the knotted roots around me. my angst and fear ebb in a brief lapse of consciousness. morning will bring songbirds, and the dammnedable buzzing of bees. always the morning, always the bees.
there are no curses that can be born of the rough genitals of tonuge and mind to give form to my contempt of the sun.
at least there are still berry bushes down here, bitter though their bounty may be.