...In the first place, such a rose is nearly impossible to find; primarily because it is a rarity, and secondly because it is, after all, entirely green. Many botanists (even those whose emotions have not been entirely sucked from their bodies by microscopes and textbooks with strange, stringy helixes on their pages) believe the rose to be a boring and troublesome side effect of science.

Their failure in this observation is twofold.

Botany is a sordid career, and those who engage in its practice have had the beauty of life and nature hacked, chiseled and reduced at last to a series of strange, stringy helixes. (A botanist at a dinner party is usually the one mumbling over the species of parsley used for decorating the alfredo.) These helixes tell the botanists the meaning of life. But all the different species of plants, from the roses to the parsleys, convey a different meaning.

The botanists are never able to decide which meaning is the correct one, since there are so many.

But since they found the green rose to be the most boring and troublesome of the plant species, one can safely assume that its strange, stringy helixes tell the real story; the right story; the story everyone wants to hear before the go to bed and the story to which they want to wake, told to them by a digital voice heard from a digital box.

But one could not have a green rose.

But perhaps somewhere in the world one could.