There might be some kind of secret wisdom here:
The morning looked promising, so my lovely wife and I raced off to go raspberry picking. I picked a pound of beautiful raspberries. They are in our refrigerator now, but I have hardly eaten any of them. They're fine, but they are not the same as the many I ate out in the field, the raspberries falling apart, partially dried out, and full of strange scars. Those were the ones that I did not want to infect all my carefully picked good ones with, or make my fine ones ugly by adding their strange shapes, and so instead merely saved from waste by eating them.
Those were the delicious ones.
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