In the heart of the orchard, where the air hangs thick with the scent of unripe dreams, lies the eternal citrus maze. Citrus, a word spoken in hushed reverence among thinkers, for it contains both sweetness and bitterness; a reflection of existence itself.
Have you wandered in the labyrinth of your own creation? In the winding paths of thought, one finds not just answers but the questions themselves, hidden like seeds beneath the earth.
If a maze has no end, what is the purpose of traversing its paths? Perhaps to find oneself, or perhaps to lose oneself entirely, among the network of branches and leaves.