Sanity Grows On Trees by Karo Sadowicz

I still shudder to remember the burning heat of his gaze, like his eyes were not the windows to his soul at all, but lakes of tar in the slums of hell.

Sanity grows on trees, which is great if you are a giraffe, or at least an elephant with a long trunk. It's not at all like money or strawberries. It's plentiful in its lush canopies, and ripest on the topmost branches. I guess it's not such a bad deal if you are a monkey either. Monkeys can climb trees. As can larger primates. Alas, that is not the case with me.

When I first heard about this, I had the same reaction you are probably having now. And no, it's not at all a metaphor. I mean it. Sanity grows on trees that yield fruit three times a year, lightly sweet, crisp, sky-colored fruit. The fruit is small but potent. It's the great ironic incarnation of all those as-yet-undiscovered flowers the environmentalist lament in the waning Amazon--you know, the ones that might hold the cure for cancer or AIDS or halitosis. It's real. Palpable. Edible. And it works.

You can't ask me how or why it works. You can tell me it's the placebo effect, but you have to grant me that full-frontal psychosis isn't quite the same as a psychosomatic migraine. And how the hell would you know anyway?

How I know is another issue. There are some legal complications that impede my ability to give you an answer. All I can say is this:

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