TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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03.29.06, wednesday night
I didn't take any photos in Belfast, which looked more American than any other city I've seen in Europe so far. Those empty, vast streets of new brick buildings, metal roll-downs, and derelict storefronts awaiting another Hitchcock to capture the city's rainslicked midnight menace.
No nightcaps were had, but there werea couple of fantastic bookshops, a bulwark of gun shops and Christian paraphernalia shops, overpriced Indian food, and sleepless nights of Loyalists lads on the corner, chanting for a fight.