TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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01.31.04, saturday afternoon
Every day when the sun begins to set, the chimneys of the pastry factory next door hiss, letting loose thick white plumes that dance hysterically in the gold-moted sky. Beyond lies the Port of the City I love so much: a horizon of white cranes, slow barges, the carapaces of trains glinting at the border of darkness.
Our loft doesn't smell so sweet anymore; maybe Jimmy and I have simply become accustomed to our neighbor, like people often do when they are around things (like rules and whistling men and scents and birds and prisons) all the time.