It was a perfect nectarine, the kind that makes you shake your head, that makes you marvel — hot pink, burning red, liquid gold, soft and dripping and impeccable. But let me say what you may know is coming: inside that scrumptious miracle of creation was, of course, a rocky, inedible, tooth-scraping pit; a failure, if you will; a failure of sweetness, a failure of edibility; and a rejection by nature of any wish I might have to see the moment as solely and wholly pleasurable; a rejection that contained, of course, the seed of more fruit. Therein, I believe, lies some magic.

– Savala Nolan