This is an invalid ordinance. Everything is fruit of the poisonous tree.

No one, especially not you, can change an entire universe's purpose at the drop of a dramatic speech. Like the rest... You're just another speck of dust on God's windshield.

The fig tree grows its flowers strangely inside out, concealed within the soft interior of the fruit. Erszébet imagines the fig's hidden fairy weight of seeds, grown in sweetness that is also a darkness. Like treasure in a cave.

Every invalid is a prisoner

Every invalid is a physician.

Hang there like fruit, my soul,Till the tree die.