Apples. Oh, I love apples. The crunchy, the sweet kind. The one in the garden I'd find. Oh, if only the hate of society didn't bleach every single one I pick soft and brown before my hands could reach. Now, I'm left standing between rotten fruit. A form of society. I don't like apples anymore. Not for pursuit. And for that, I didn't even look at the tree a few feet afar, with ripe and sweet apples - all are fresh and red. I didn't. Because a bite of disappointment turns me sad.
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