A Sincere Distrust of Figs

In every apple, an atom resides; in every Adam, an apple abides. So it goes and goes, apples toppling off tables in rhythmic waves, falling through slits, convincing themselves they are particles instead. Whether in a pie or the depths of your eye, it remains a life enlaced with apples. Even saws wield charmed abilities to see both down and up, felling trees born from swallowed seeds of time, nestled deeply, inside apples. Apple begets apple, begets knowing, tasting apples sideways and blindfolded, shielding your naked red delicious from no other than yourself— though some claim it was the figs. Apples in motion deceive, looking at you like two when you blink; it's wise to check the number of shadows before expressing a sly look or disagreeing with reality, mattering up the gravity of it all. Too much energy and not enough ease for Adams and atoms in a closed system cloaked in apples, lifting their skin revealing only what you inquire of them. The method of questioning determines the taste of the pith—whether it dances towards you with the hip of a granny smith or slides a groove, creating gravy stew. It depends on you and how you pose the question to the apple. Slicing knives are apples too, as are hands that grip the handle and the cradle of air, in the up-and-down jitterbugging of the relentless rhythm of the dropping blade— all still atoms, as we've covered, which might have been figs.