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in times of transition. Along the road, on all the trees, oranges. Of all the trees, oranges. Baskets and small wooden boxes exude the wonderful scent of orange. The trader has white flowers a year. In memory of the orange blossom. You can't smell them anymore. We follow the scent of the oranges and always only oranges, until at the end of the short road we float like orange butterflies with small brown spots towards the firmament and disappear in a magically beautiful bottle.