outwait outrun outwit





TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


05.06.03, tuesday afternoon

Last night I spackled the walls, imagining that every hole was a tiny wound. Though spackle infiltrates these small gaps, it can't erase the memory of the wound, the history inflicted by a nail hammered into place. . . My anger is a dangerous beast. It's worst when a lot of beer is involved. J and I have the wounds to prove it.




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