TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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09.04.04, saturday evening
With his rosy cheeks and the wildly aimed eyes that are always changing, brown to blue to brown again--as if his body cannot decide what hue it desires--the baby does not look so much like an alien anymore. His face is not so squinched together, not so rumpled from the effort to breathe and digest and sleep. The effort to be human, I suppose.