This, children, is a potbound plant. Fig, to be precise. This is what happens when we stay in our apartments, are stuck in our ruts, for longer than is healthy. Our roots wrap around our necks and choke us even though on the outside everything looks fine. Until thing start to drop off. Or until we lose the proverbial It. What we need is to be bodily hauled squealing from our snug spots, have some painful but quick, sharp-bladed snipping of our bonds, and then a kind return to a space refreshed with some new, nutritious soil all around.
Yes, I am fine. And the fig feels better. It's having flank steak on the bbq for dinner.
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