Catalyst to the Misanthrope

The treetop flourishes. Its leaves clump in boughs of green as darkest waxen jade from coded, subterranean prioritization.


Incongruous, it's middle branches are listless and restless, abuzz but without seeming sustenance; the middle's form with unsure function spreads superior to ten or so lower branches spotted with fruit.


At its distal tip, the longest and sturdiest of lower branches brandishes a lone fruit whose wind-whipped and sun-exposed skin shows the toll and exhibits withering's onset.


Among a grove of like others, it is a tree who seems to have lost its season, thinly holding a decomposing once-prized fruit whose fate is a looming impact on ground that holds the invisible taproot with a toxicity causing imbalance.


The grower's finger slides across a button and drapes slide shut with a damped whir, obscuring the panoramic window's view from far above and away.