It's all around you.
A girl sat sorting strawberries. They were all her's, a gift. She picked one up. "Too small," she said and threw it away. "Too bruised." "Too ripe." "Too green." "Too sour," throwing them all away. The girl was very hungry, so hungry that she did not want to settle for things she knew she did not want, for that would make her more unhappy with disappointment. "Fine, a little hunger. I know what I do not want." She sorted the berries for hours, disdainfully rejecting each one. She grew tired and the sun grew low. "I know what I do not want," she said, "and I will not be happy with it." This she knew above all else. If everything changed she would still be sure of that. She kept on peering at each strawberry, face pinched in hunger, and tossed them to the side. She knew what she did not want. And the sun set behind orange and apple and peach and lime and pineapple and kumquat and banana and tangerine and goosberry and breadfruit trees.
It's all around you.
It's all around you.