We see the greyish lemon on the counter and feel that’s it: the lemon has gone on to live a different life. An unfortunate event, a rotting fruit. Something that somehow escaped our attention and was left behind, to rot. To be dismantled by other lives besides its own. It is our fault that the rotting fruit was not eaten, not incorporated into our bodies by our internal bacteria, but left to be conquered by those floating around the kitchen. We have missed an opportunity to absorb a life we took. We have failed to tear apart the fruit – the insides of which curiously echo our own insides – and cannibalize it. Is this the dissolution of the lemon’s identity into the collectiveness of bacteria, the plurality of microscopic colonies marching into the lemon’s waxy yellow surface, like a sort of infantry of disbanded identities? Are we in the presence of magic? Juices escape: flesh becomes infirm. Opacity overcomes glimmer. Fascination, an undertone of guilt and disgust
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