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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


01.16.05, sunday morning


Shhhh!!! I really shouldn't be here. I know, I locked the doors and tossed the key into the river, but I realized at the last minute that I hadn't swept here properly before leaving you.

Look, I really don't hate you, so you shouldn't boo-hoo so much, calling me to you the way only you can do sometimes, especially at night, when the memory of light dims and all the ghosts rise to claim their names.

See, I've opened the windows here. I've dusted all your little perfume bottles and snow globes. I've put seed in the birdfeeder. I've even fixed the shelf that was sagging from the weight of your dreams.

But I can't come here all the time and expect to get anything proper done. Certainly not a book of stories, not with two jobs, a husband, friends from outta town, debts to pay, letters to write (lord knows, I'm months behind!), owls to paint, teeth to fix, birds to watch, books to read, grad school to ponder, abandoned factories and shoreline parks to explore, . . .

So there's my explanation. It's not so dramatic, after all. Apologies for the other letter's tone. I wrote it in a fit of passion; we were together for almost 5 years. Now I can deal with it. I know it will not last long, this separation.

Love,
Phil

P.S. If you want packages or letters, just ASK.





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