So much for the joys of the quick kill.

When was the last time you thought of yourself as innocent?

I was plucked from the vine so long ago that I've had to bloom in the chemical manner, slowly and by trial and error, rather than as the result of any natural process.

Was there pain? Was it a sudden, blinding moment of blossoming photosynthical majesty? Or a million pricking stings, letting me fall from where I grew, finding solace, shelter, and worldy knowledge in the shade of the great tree...

I no longer remember. I've spent years doing my best to forget my isn't something I held onto with any relish.

I can mock at innocence, at childhood, wearing baggy sweaters and staring at the stars...but nothing reflects me, and the sun no longer remembers me as it's kin, in green and growing manner.

So now I turn, wielding the ever present scythe, and make my turn at the harvest, at the process. Will that which grows at my hand turn any sweeter a flavor? Or will I merely pass on the parentage found in me so early on?

Shear brilliance. I saw the light, but it was a reflection.

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