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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


06.02.05, thursday night

after eating my first burger in years, i spotted a painted lady butterfly resting on one of the plaza's many little staircases. it rose up and danced on my shoulder before fluttering off to more verdant places

. . .

there was a bomb scare a week or two ago. as we evacuated the building, the stairwell trembled with the clop-clop-clop of hundreds of high heels. it takes the excitement of imminent disaster to rouse us from our post-lunchbreak stupor; forgive us, we forget our names when we have to look into a monitor eight hours a day. the foremen of catastrophe appeared concerned under their hard hats and the mayor came out, accompanied by a bodyguard. He wore a black suit and grasped the leash of a big black dog. the dog inspected us with his tongue lolling out and the mayor waved. he appeared decidedly smug. he is the first person i have ever typified as an asshole without even hearing his voice.





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