TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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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.