This is how yellow feels between your thumbs, like a hard raindrop or a soft star. Pulsing, silent, actual. A stone with its moss on the inside, a counter-earth of spat champagne. A decorative statement about the future. If thought is the eroticisation of consciousness then lemons are the eroticisation of sunlight, hardwater babies growing wiser with each nap. Their pips scour the dark like owls.