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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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04.03.03, thursday afternoon

Overheard at the bus stop on 1st and International, above the din of the 58 and through the walls of an apartment house: "Three hours and I have managed to do NOTHING!"

Except eat three more crunchy little schoolboys (trois petits ecoliers, despite J's admonition to not be so gluttonous like No-Face in Hayao Miyakazi's Spirited Away and eat all the cookies in one sitting) and stare at the computer screen wondering why the words won't write themselves. If I was still a Baptist, I might decide to close my eyes and pray for creative manna to fall my way.




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