The fruit of one’s labour cannot be measured by buckets picked, nor by uniquely labelled jars stored on shelves in dark cold cellars. Fruit, like life is a dance from dawn to dusk, between birth and death becoming attractive wearing a colourful plumage while still raw and bitter at the core. The full colour only vivid at the end when the sweet scent attracts new pursuers while the rot grows inside. As dusk turn to nightmare our cycle completes, we roam the cold dark cellars in search for uniquely labelled jars yet closed. The fruit of one’s labour cannot be measured in a single lifetime — nor in the coins left behind.