Juicy berries, fresh cut stems, warm sap—tingle or jar, and sometimes neither, and sometimes nothing but make it ugly just to prove you can. How many times can you read an interpretation of a perfume, opposite thoughts and very strong opinions, before you understand how it smells. The same way you can listen to their account of what happened: the birth, sweet or violent, and then hear tales of their adolescence squeezed dry or ripening, the way they talk about you. The way some say the stars twinkle, while others shoot, never look up and realize they are made of the same thing. There is no such thing as real when everything is.