It is funny that most ficus make a fig you should not eat, like a photo of an ice cube in the searing summer heat. It reminds you of the nice fruit filled with gobs of tiny seeds, but most fruiting feral ficus lack the sugar to be sweet. So if you pass a planter when you're walking down the street, and you think, "If that were edible, it truly would be neat," best evaluate assumptions about visual deceit; almost certainly its species isn't gonna be a treat.
This flower has small flowers. Apparently that's a thing? The center cluster makes the disc with rays encircling. The head is a capitulum, a compositional set of many tiny blooms in one, each piece called a floret. They present as one entity seen better from afar. Members of Asteraceae, a family of stars.
Do you ever look at a sign on a pole and think, "Can anyone do that? Can I grant myself the rulemaker's role and alter the content or format?" Because, sometimes, the signs, you see, are doctored, and it's not clear whether the change was made officially or by a neighbor feeling clever.
The cackling sun melts the sky. The exhausted earth heaves, unwilling, out of breath. And the people under parasols crawl from shadow to furious shadow, asking why, as the conflagration of a midsummer's day offers sweltering death. The cats twitch in dream as passersby peer longingly at the windowsills where they ignore the street. A lone man smears salty rivers of sweat into his eyes, thirsting for conditioned interlude from this murderous heat. "A cloud, a cloud, oh thank you, a cloud", weary walkers, prostrating themselves to cumulus change, stare into the glare and declare to their friends out loud, newly prepared for hopefully impending rain.
Light suction to mosquito bite. This tubular tool's neato, right? White plastic itch torpedo's might will help you get to sleep tonight.
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