Sometimes I think of my father. I picture him in a little cherry orchard. A self-appointed magistrate of produce. His mouth is black and rotten. A single tooth affixed at the front of his jutting jaw, like a solid drop of pus.
He's speaking to a questioner in a voice dripping with Dunning-Kruger. I leave halfway through his fifteen minutes. I can't stand his voice.
I spend the rest of the time examining ruined fruit. Split from the weeks rain. Livelihood and crop, both ruined.
7:25 p.m. - 2015-08-25
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