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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

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


04.17.06, monday night

At first he didn't believe me that three dead lambs lay in the field. The grass was that tall. One was torn up; a fox or a badger had thrashed it to pieces. Another was missing the eyes that the crows had snatched. The third one I almost didn't see; it was so small, as if a bit of cotton had snagged on the cut emerald blades.





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