The whimsical riffle of river. A patch of bright summer grass. An apple tree, polka-dotted with young fruit. At first glance, your limbs turn languid, melting under the sweet caress of this perfect little world, and just like that, you are lost in the arms of tranquility, forgetting everything that came before it. How easy, then, to bristle at the sudden chatty intersections of passersby, or even the demands of your own loved ones, impatient for a meal or, simply, a change of scenery. How quick you are to rise in a huff, disturbed from your tidy throne, flung into the shifty rhythms of that other world surrounding you on all borders, raising your fists for battle. But do you know that river will follow you anywhere? Do you know the apples will appear, blushing, no matter the season?