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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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05.08.05, sunday morning

Earthquake, 3:40ish am. Elka had just dropped me off after hanging out for a few hours at her college's printshop. As with all little earthquakes, I swore at first that it was a figment of my imagination, a convulsion of the interior that had somehow knocked a Sri Lankan friendship mask off a great beam; Sohini's boy had given it to me about 4 years ago, Matt who was no longer So's boy. I thought first of Elka, driving away back to school and then of J, who was disturbed enough to wake briefly before slumber steered him back to murky waters.






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