so of course i must mention it’s shape, some sweet moon or toothy smile nestled between loaves of peanut butter. about the artificial flavor, we devolve into capitalism. marx would be proud. though i have never seen one, i dream of the Gros Michel, the Panama disease, the Chiquita-industrial complex. it is easy to speak of nature as its own kind of civilization. look, haven’t we all had our skin spoiled at the hands of a clumsy lover? and there is no textbook for this: wilt. bruise. we learn in retrospective, mini-series. sometimes it is hard to come to terms with an architecture of violence. soft folds or marble. the sweet stench of flesh, a taste we have developed for space or boats or other unlearnables.