A peach with a thumbprint of its skin scuffed off, sits on your desk and you put too much pressure on it to make you feel good. Its juice, you imagine, will renew you, the taste will blend away the memory of wine from last night. The rest of the day stretches out in front of you, a laser beam of tiredness, and you blink away lunchbreak headlines about the rainforest burning and the far right stampeding on. Pull to refresh your horoscope feed. Drink the tea your friend makes you.