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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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04.29.05, friday evening

Some nights the black hole can't help but grow and grow and grow, eating up all light until there is nothing left but the darkness of a house occupied only by one, where the furniture is no longer friendly but a depository of dead wood, dead skin, memories that no longer fly and glint and skim, dried insect husks scattering beneath footfalls.

I've had many nights like these. And I will probably continue to have nights like these. How to not succumb to negativity? How to not expect more from friendships? How to not be so lazy, so moody, so scatterbrained? How to not be so doubtful of my powers? How to defeat the hopelessness that expands with each new day lived in this country?

Ah, but remember those crickets in a small glass enclosure who cannot anticipate their fate as tomorrow's supper for the lizard next cube over, who have never participated in the grand cricket orchestra at the top of the city cemetary: they still chirp, pausing only to listen to a guitar played not for any audience but the guitar player and, when the guitar has been put away, they will chirp again until the moment they become supper.






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