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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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08.12.07, sunday morning

Doors open and close all around me. I hesitate. You're told to always act with utmost practicality, otherwise you'll end up with banged knees, chipped teeth, debt the size of Idaho.

I read somewhere that a happy disposition does not correlate to longevity; optimism promotes risky decisions. But I prefer a short intense life than a long careful lukewarm existence. I want to be, at the end of mine, mad for more, mad for every poem and every kiss and every dream I'll never have again.

So here it is again: another difficult choice, guided not by practicality, but by rain, stars, scribbled dreams, the cost of a plane trip across the great pond. I leave alone, to return to him renewed.




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