TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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11.10.05, Thursday evening
At the party last week, a sad-eyed bony dog named Sooty sat at my feet and I met an old man who didn't ask me about my day job. We talked about darkness; how it swallows up the road so quickly after dusk; how it brushes against your cheek as if it was a thing with many wings or paws or hands; how you have to push through it on those nights as if it was a crowd in an unfamiliar city or hundreds of black coats without scent or heft. Later I went to bed, smacking my tongue against heaven's mouth in an underground bar where only port is served, with olives and cheese, the stinkier, the better.