Squeeze

I feel bad for oranges. I’d hate to be crushed, just for my juices. People can be so cruel, slipping the oh-Jay down their throats, pulp and all, flesh and blood down the gullet. But, of course, why should we care? It would be insane. It just strikes me as weird that’s all, that something has to be crushed and devoured for it to be complete; for it to achieve, for us at least, its purpose. I think of this tonight, as she packs a suitcase. I don’t know why.

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