I ran over a vine of lemons once, in a large, generous field. Heady zest fell off like pine needles on carpet; juice rained from the bottom up. A tropical thunderstorm burst forth on the ground like a woman in labour; it crashed and stormed and would have no one stand in its way. I ran into an old house, panting. An old, desolate house. I ran up the stairs and into a room with one window. I opened the curtains. It was then that I first tasted fear. For I could see neither lemons nor lightning. The curtains opened metres wide. There was clearly a wide window, a glass-filled hole cut into the wall, designated for looking out to what should've been the brilliant fields. But nothing lay beyond to be seen. There was no colour, no beauty, no war, no famine, no earthworms, no fruit. I closed and opened the curtains again and again. There was only a desolate nothingness. I felt sick then, vomiting all the way down the hallway, searching in vain in the dark for the staircase, for the corridor downstairs that would lead me back outside. To the storm, yes, to the relentless cold and rain. But at least in that I would also have the brilliance of the yellow light and fruit. Stinking, sweet Life.