TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Things were moving on. Except for Crow, the birds had left for other shores, other suns, other rivers. Even the fish were gone. Those lithe ribbons of light, as long as a child's pinkie in the fleeting springtime, had departed from their shallow birth-waters, toward the vast depths of the sea. Certain songs and glimmerings are known only in summer.