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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


04.30.04, friday morning

Before the peals of songbirds broke my slumber, I must have dreamt a hundred dreams. My eyelids are heavy, as if I didn't get nine good hours of sleep, as if the eyeballs had dashed around within their sockets for nine hours, as I traveled through the cities of my subconscious.

But I'm not at all surprised. I've always slept this way in this city, dreaming a hundred dreams per night. In San Diego, I sleep in the coil of miles and miles of roads, the constant susurrus of automobiles.




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