It was ripe for its liking and knew that patience was the way to go. It was not crazy nor did it have any delusional thoughts of grandeur. It did not produce nectar nor did it ever want to be associated with honey or pollen or even bees and butterflies. It is thoroughly satisfied with its own mystery. With no place to call home, the lemon knows that with time all good things happen. With its perfect contention with its citric and acids, the lemon migrates the land like a yellow nomad. Searching in solitude for its meaning of existence. The lemon's juices spill not flow. It is rough in its nature. It has its reasons. It doesn't care about minuscule things like shape or taste or that it attacks opened wounds with a vicious tyrannical attack. The lemon knows of its idiosyncrasies and still continues to take its own path. Sure the lemon can be baked and made into an Ade that children love. But the lemon CHOOSES to engage in these extra extra curricular activities. The lemon knows its core is protected by rind and only a fool would challenge the lemon's soul. Even without a place of origin the lemon is a BACA (bad ass citric acid). And when the lemon's day is over, it relaxes to the sweet succulent charms of Limoncello.
Sip my friends. Sip.
