TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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07.10.06, monday evening
Not one bee orchid; it isn't time yet. At the top of the mountain, clouds hovered in layers, each one different than its neighbor. A great tiger-striped one that went on for miles. Fluffy white kittens, swept away by an impatient gale. Ominous boiling ones, composed of many greys, all the possibilities of rain. I could haved looked at those clouds for hours.