thrive ovenbird “The tomato plant is doing well!” you say. We can’t possibly be looking at the same one. The plant on my balcony is stunted and drooping. It’s hardly grown since you dropped it off a month ago in its heavy plastic pot. Three demoralized flowers hang from a life raft of sepals. I can tell they’re not going to make it. The roots have all but rotted away. The soil is waterlogged and sprouting a skin of furry fungus that looks as if it may be developing sentience. One tiny green globe of fruit hangs from a withered stem and when I glance in its direction it falls to the mat of mould below, relieving the twisted stalk of its final hope. You can look at anything and make yourself believe it’s thriving. You’ll find the last living leaf on a blackened vine and take it as evidence that all is well. No need to intervene! It’ll perk right up! When I lay in bed, milkless and delirious, you plucked my week old baby from my arms and took him to the window to wave at all your neighbours passing by. You kept the curtain mostly closed to hide the inappropriate drama of my obnoxious dying. 260714 what's it to you? who go blather from