TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
A few winters ago, I read a letter to an anthropologist who was seeing a man she didnít love, a dentist who held unto her hand as if he still couldnít believe his luck; she dismissed, Youíre being melodramatic, child. Still so young, I pondered long, stung, and buried the letter.