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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


09.03.04, friday afternoon

Everytime I hear Elka's voice on the phone, I am amazed. Seriously. It is kin to rainbows and brooks and tiny forests shivering with friendly ghosts. It is light laughing off glass surfaces in a sleepy-eyed snow-cloaked town set deep in a mountain I have not climbed yet.






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