I'm beginning to believe that my orange can penetrate dreams. Lately, my dreams have all had one hue. And they were all sour. Moreso like the rotten piece of fruit that has been sitting on my desk for a week now. It's buyer must have had good intentions. He probably thought I would swing in my giddy dance if I had shots of vitamin C in my system. I love him for being concerned. But I'm allergic to vitamin C. Unless, he wants me to live till tomorrow, better not feed me anything packed with the C's.

What the hell. Hey, one orange wouldn't kill me. Neither does two. It's a wonder why I left it untouched. The orange fruit in the orange bag. That's what my dream was about. It must taste sweet inside, but I hesitate to take it. Not anymore. It's been exposed long enough I fear it not agreeing with me. In my slumber, it hovered over me. Telling me to stop telling lies and pretend I'm made like it. I am one person. Not made of sections. I was never meant to be shared.

This is what happens to you when you wait for things you know wouldn't come. You dream of oranges. Talking oranges. And the longer it's there, the more things turn rotten and sour.