Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Peaches Aefresh

o timothy!

in the peach, I have found notable beauty, delicate scent, surpassing smoothness, vibrant color, succulent sweetness, and... camraderie. Yes. Speaking precisely here.

just the other day, I noted to Mrs. Smooth (a peach I redeemed from the village market) that Mr. Harry (a country peach from the hills) could be a little tough around the edges, but that he had a heart of gold, right down to his very core. She didn't say anything about it, but peaches are quiet folk by and large, anyways. In fact, only 8 of them have ever spoken to me.

I remember the day well. I was telling Mr. Soft that he needed to stand a little more firmly for his convictions. Suddenly, he began to bellow implications. Yes. Implications! He got so worked up that he had a little bit of a meltdown in my... my mouth.

Another time, I was having a very romantic dinner with Miss Rosy Peach. It was just the two of us, sitting very close, looking out on a sunset on the edge of a cliff. I was waxing eloquent about her many physical, emotional, spiritual, and metaphorical attributes which I felt had drawn us to each other, when she suddenly interrupted and said quite plainly: "I don't think it was meant to be..." and immediately rolled herself off the edge of the cliff. I was peachless: a man peeled of pleasure, pitted against fate.

Fate. That constant eventuality which simultaneously defibrilates our psyche with pandemonium and peace? The modicum is insoluble, the extremity ethereal. How shall we stand still then, while the air quakes with verdant note and screaming color? Perhaps balance is golden.

Perhaps to Peach.


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