The flavors settle across my tongue in shapes and colors. Sweetness pools, smug and tarry, like pitch seeping from a sun-warmed beam. Quicksilver balls of sourness skitter for a moment, then freeze into shards and fall like icicles brushed from a window sill. Tiny pricks of vinegar mark out the footprints of the wasp. I let it all dissolve into golden light.
-Philip Kazan
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