TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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03.01.03, saturday night
Thanx to the six-pack of Bud smuggled into the cemetary, we peed alot outdoors. A gallon or two of piss whistling over tall grass. Also: bickered toward late brunch; shared a glass of caw-fee i scream; watched sunset pink above the city from a hill overlooking cemetary stone and lake; read Jimmy Corrigan in bedrooms Oakland; trekked through a creek tunnel near Piedmont, resurfacing from subterranean wet darkness into verdant light and big russet dogs barking. Now he sleeps, sighs, his arm hiding under pillow.