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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Sunday, 27 July 2008

Watched a cormorant swallow a young mullet, the sequined body of the struggling fish glinting for a moment before it disappeared. In the fairy tales of my youth, birds were transmogrified humans, donors of strange useless gifts, or repositories of great wealth. Peasants caught them by dumb luck. If they were smart, they'd let them go, but every story needs a wiser fool in the end, so most opt for murder, slitting the bird's belly open to find enough gold to finance previously unimagined dreams. Then off they went to the nearest tavern, and order everyone a drink, and plan a tomorrow of paid rent and travel abroad, only to open the purse and find fish scales and decayed entrails.





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