"Once, I dreamed of sunshine," sighed the elder orange, teetering upon its stem's delicate edge.
—
"We who twist beneath the cosmic suns, are we elements of citric fortune or plots of tales untold?" inquired the youngest orb.
—
Amidst whispers with the wind, an aura of timeless pulp divulged unspoken truths about the roots' natures.
The conversation spirals onwards like tendrils of an untamed vine.