You are hungry.
There is a tree.
There is one living branch.
There is a fruit hanging from the branch.
Its color is perfect, its shape is flawless.
You can almost taste its succulent juices.
You try for hours to stir the tree into motion, to knock the fruit loose.
You leap and dance at the bough overhead, you butt the trunk, you try grasping rocks in your mouth and hurling them at the branch with a fling of your neck.
At last, sore and worn and hungrier than ever, you knock the fruit loose.
Triumphant, you saunter over and bite into it.
It is rotten.
