TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
I envied the snow in New York. I want a day so white, so blindingly white, I cannot see. I want to just taste, taste Emmental cheese, sourdough bread or cinnamon. I want to lie on my couch, smelling leather, animal oils, newsprint. Please attend your neglected senses. These, clothes heavy-knit or velvet on skin. These, eyelashes resting on flushed cheeks. These, the songs sung by a husky-voiced woman, whose life or death I do not seek beyond the words she sing.