TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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01.25.07, thursday afternoon
I walked to read the fields writ in rime, but three dogs followed me. As they sniffed and sprayed and gamboled, I wanted to be like them, like a dog in the world: collecting friends with ease; sniffing everything in its freshness; unbetrayed by doubt; marking the world without a care if anyone should ever read my marks; fearing only when the visible sudden danger made itself apparent.