TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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11-30-05, wednesday evening
The sun had already set by the time I biked to school. Black cattle grazed on a lawn that glowed chartreuse, as if the grass was soaked in milky Pernod. Lit windows seemed to float in the incoming darkness. I was all alone in the world, ferrying my weight through the twilit underworld of a solitude so thorough, I could have floated off the road like a feather without its origin. Then I spotted another lit window, and more: the school; in another ten minutes, I would climb a dark, narrow stairwell, to the very top of the castle where Jimmy was building his installation. The thought gave me gravity; I could feel my clouded spectacles, the pull of my heavy black tunic, the jeans I had tucked into my boots.