My raw, unfiltered thoughts pour from me like lemons squeezed onto ice on a hot summer day. I examine the contents. Do I add sugar or is it already sweet? Am I bad if I like the sour taste of what has come from within me? Do you want a taste? I make a calculated guess as to how much sugar to add so that you may find my thoughts palatable. Measuring, sweetening, squeezing. My fingers grow tired as I watch your face contort from the taste.